


Never In Our Favor

by lunasenzanotte



Series: La Liga Games [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, M/M, Spain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The totalitarian La Liga is divided between 12 main districts, 8 enslaved ones and the Capitol. Each year two representatives from each of the main districts are selected by lottery to participate in La Liga games. The 24 participants are forced to eliminate their competitors while the rest of La Liga are required to watch. Three years ago, Sergio Canales won the 47th La Liga games and is leading a rather comfortable life in the Victors‘ Village in Valencia. As his only close person, Bojan, was sent abroad by the La Liga government and is thus exempted from the reaping, Sergio thinks nothing bad can happen to him anymore. But the current ruler of La Liga Florentino Pérez and his gamemakers have a special surprise for the 50th year...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> List of tributes:
> 
> REAL MADRID: Álvaro Morata, Luka Modrić  
> BARCELONA: Sergi Roberto, Pedro Rodríguez  
> ATLETICO MADRID: Koke, Diego Costa  
> ATHLETIC BILBAO: Carlos Gurpegui, Ander Iturraspe  
> VILLARREAL: Bruno Soriano, Tomás Pina  
> REAL SOCIEDAD: Haris Seferović, Rubén Pardo  
> SEVILLA: Diogo Figueiras, Ivan Rakitić  
> LEVANTE: Juanfran, Nagore  
> ESPANYOL: Kiko Casilla, Felipe Mattioni  
> VALENCIA: Joao Pereira, Diego Alves  
> GRANADA: Yacine Brahimi, Piti  
> GETAFE: Miguel Ángel Moya, Alexis Ruano  
> OUTSIDE LA LIGA: Bojan Krkic, Gerard Deulofeu

_The forest is on fire. Sergio can smell the burning wood, he can feel the air around him grow hot and heavy. He runs without knowing where, just away from the fire. A fire ball hits a tree on his right and he changes the direction. He almost can’t breathe and wonders if he will die of asphyxia before the flames get to him. He sort of hopes he does.  
  
Suddenly a wall of fire appears in front of him and he stops. He turns back but there is nothing but fire and more fire. The flames are closing around him and there is nowhere to run now. He curls up on the ground, just waiting for the blackness to swallow him._  
  
“Sergio!” a familiar voice breaks through the walls of fire and makes them disappear. “Sergio, wake up!”  
  
He sits up abruptly, gulping the fresh air of his bedroom. Then he looks at the familiar face next to him. Bojan looks worried a little bit, but there’s some understanding in it as well.  
  
“Bojan?” Sergio asks breathily. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Eredivisie.”  
  
“I was, but they called me back,” Bojan shrugs. “I don’t know why.”  
  
He hands Sergio a bottle of chilled water. Sergio unscrews the cap and drinks half of it.  
  
“Again the nightmares?” Bojan asks.  
  
“Yes,” Sergio nods. “The fire ones again. They come back stronger at this time of the year.”  
  
“You know they can’t send you back,” Bojan says quietly. “The victors can’t go back. It’s in the rules.”  
  
“I know,” Sergio sighs. “I’ll still have to go to the Capitol and watch two other people from here die, most likely. That’s bad enough.”  
  
Bojan nods. He knows he will never understand Sergio’s fear, his nightmares, the way he has to feel. He watched the 47th La Liga Games, watched Sergio kill other people in order to survive, feared for his life, he remembers the fire that’s been haunting Sergio’s dreams for almost three years. He saw Sergio go almost insane, saw him cry over the body of the other Valencia tribute, saw him avenge his friend’s death and saw him win. But watching the games is different than competing in them.  
  
He will never know what it is like. As he was sent abroad by the La Liga government, he is exempted from the reaping. It’s a certain privilege, a way La Liga compensates it to him. It’s different from the other eight districts who are exempted because they are practically slaves to the Capitol. The Capitol don’t even regard them worthy of competing in the Games. They obviously have no idea how happy those districts are about it.  
  
“I’ll wait for you here and when it’s over...” he starts.  
  
“It’s never over, Bojan,” Sergio whispers. “When you exit the arena, it’s not the end. More like the beginning.”  
  
Bojan can sense that he isn’t talking just about the Victory Tour and mentoring other tributes. He remembers all the times Sergio had to go to the Capitol for the annual tour and returned with expensive things and a strange, absent look in his eyes. He never had the courage to ask him about it.  
  
“The president will announce the rules of the Games tomorrow,” Sergio says, getting up from the bed. “It’s the 50th year.”  
  
“Yes,” Bojan says.  
  
He feels uneasy talking about something that means so much to Sergio and so little to him.  
  
“50th year means something special,” Sergio continues. “I just hope it’s not going to be more of the tributes.”  
  
“We can watch it together if you want,” Bojan offers.  
  
Sergio nods absent-mindedly. Bojan hugs him and kisses him, but knows well that he will never be able to kiss Sergio’s fears away. The Games built a wall between them and he can’t tear it down.  
  
*  
  
The next day they sit on the couch in Sergio’s house in the Victors’ Village in Valencia. Everything in the house still looks new because Sergio never learned to really use it. He grew up in the poor part of the district, before the Games he was almost dying of hunger. Having a luxurious house and enough food is something he never imagined he could have.  
  
They switch on the TV and sit close to each other. Bojan can sense the different feelings they have. Sergio is nervous, afraid even, Bojan is only mildly curious.  
  
 _La Liga anthem sounds from the TV and the badges of all twelve major districts appear on the screen. Then President Florentino Pérez walks out on a balcony under which the people of Capitol are waiting to hear the rules of the 50th La Liga Games.  
  
“This is the 50th year of La Liga Games!” he announces and the crowd starts cheering. “This year, we will have twenty-six tributes instead of twenty-four. The two extra tributes will be reaped from those citizens of La Liga who had to spend time abroad, to show them that they still belong in La Liga and that they are still welcome here.”_  
  
Bojan thinks that his heart stopped beating. His hand finds Sergio’s.  
  
 _“Those tributes can have a mentor of their choice, of the former victors or not.”  
  
Florentino drinks a bit of something that looks like pink lemonade and smiles widely.  
  
“The tributes will be reaped now by a special escort here in Capitol and they will join the others after the usual reaping. This will give them enough time to find mentors of their own.”  
  
The cameras find a young woman, unmistakeably from the Capitol. She is standing close to a glass ball full of small papers._  
  
Bojan feels sick when he realizes that his name is in the ball. Sergio’s hand in his is slack and when he turns his head to him, he can see that his eyes are closed and his lips are shaking.  
  
 _The escort reaches in the ball, picks a name and walks over to the microphone in the middle of the stage she’s on. She looks slightly nervous. It’s probably her first time being an escort and she is now on one stage with the President.  
  
“Gerard Deulofeu!” she reads and smiles proudly that she pronounced it right.  
  
The crowd claps their hands as Gerard’s picture appears on the big screens around the square. Without a doubt they took it from his official file because he looks terrible on it._  
  
 _The escort picks the second name and unfolds the paper._  
  
Sergio whimpers and bites his lip. Bojan squeezes his hand.  
  
“It’s fine, they’re not going to pick me,” he whispers. “There are hundreds of names, they’re not going to pick me, it’s not going to be-”  
  
 _“Bojan... Krkić!”  
  
The escort blushes at her stuttering with his last name but the clapping of the crowd gets her out of her misery._  
  
Bojan blinks a few times, hoping the image will go away, but it’s still there. He is looking at his picture on the screen.  
  
*  
  
When he finds Sergio again, he is in the garden of his house, hiding behind the bushes, rocking back and forth, mumbling something. Bojan feels like he is about to go insane himself, so he can’t allow Sergio to go insane as well.  
  
Crouching next to him, he collects him in his arms.  
  
“Sergio!” he says. “Sergio, please, stop!”  
  
Sergio gives him a frightened look.  
  
“You have to go!” he whispers. “You have to run away!”  
  
“Where to?” Bojan shakes his head. “Nobody can run away from La Liga.”  
  
Sergio’s lips tremble.  
  
“Listen to me,” Bojan says with the last remnants of sanity. “I want you to be my mentor.”  
  
“What?” Sergio whispers. “No, Bojan, I can’t... you have to find someone who knows...”  
  
“How to survive?” Bojan smiles. “You do know that, you survived. I trust you, Sergio. You and no one else. Will you do it for me?”  
  
Sergio just keeps looking at him for a long time. Then he closes his eyes.  
  
“Alright,” he whispers. “I will.”  
  
*  
  
The train taking them to the Capitol is the most luxurious thing Bojan has ever seen. It is decorated like a palace and there is a table full of food waiting for them.  
  
However, Sergio doesn’t look like he could eat anything and Bojan also doesn’t really think about food.  
  
They switch on the TV in one of the carriages to watch the replay of the reaping. They will see the other tributes in the Capitol, but Sergio insists that the sooner they know them, the better.  
  
 _The escort for Real Madrid, Pilar Rubio, is well known even outside the Games, same as the escorts for Barcelona and Atlético Madrid. They are celebrities simply because they are escorts for the best districts. On the other hand, nobody ever knows who the escorts for Granada or Getafe are.  
  
“Welcome, welcome!” Pilar smiles when the cameras turn to her. “It’s time for us to select two courageous young men to represent Real Madrid in the 50th La Liga Games!”  
  
She approaches the glass ball and lets her hand circle above the papers with names for a good while before picking one and walking back to the microphone. She unfolds it slowly and pauses for a moment like she has to say the name in her mind before speaking it out loud.  
  
“Luka Modrić!”  
  
It takes a while for the tribute to walk up to the stage and to Pilar’s displeasure he looks like he wants to be anywhere else but there. From Real Madrid she is used to seeing more enthusiasm, she’s already escorted big champions, names such as Cristiano Ronaldo or Iker Casillas are all a part of her portfolio. This reaping is too quiet and awkward.  
  
To save the moment, she walks over to the bowl again and draws another name. Unfolding the paper, she smiles and looks over the crowd.  
  
“Álvaro Morata!” she announces.  
  
The crowd stirs a little bit, but nothing else happens. Pilar resists the urge to frown.  
  
“Where are you, darling?” she coos. “Don’t be shy!”  
  
When Álvaro finally steps out of the crowd, he indeed looks more shy than afraid. Pilar smiles encouragingly.  
  
“Very well,” she says, trying to think about other things to say to break the embarrassing silence. “It’s a great honor. Won’t you give your tributes a round of applause?”  
  
A half-hearted clapping sounds from the crowd when the two tributes shake hands. Pilar smiles widely for the cameras and it’s all they see before the badge of Real Madrid appears on the screen again._  
  
“Well, these don’t look that hard to beat, do they?” Bojan asks.  
  
“Because they didn’t want to be reaped?” Sergio frowns. “That doesn’t mean they are not tough and won’t fight for their lives.”  
  
“Of course, everyone will, but I mean... they are not Careers.”  
  
“No. But they’ll have Ronaldo and Casillas as mentors,” Sergio sighs. “And those two know how to survive.”  
  
 _The stage in Barcelona is decorated with the blaugrana flags. The escort is Shakira, famous even outside La Liga. She’s wearing a red sequined dress that is shining in the sun and platform shoes to make her taller. Despite her appearance being no different from the other escorts from the Capitol, at least she looks somewhat more solemn and respectful than Pilar.  
  
When she reaches in the ball, she digs deep in the papers, picking one almost from the bottom.  
  
“Sergi Roberto!” she announces.  
  
She doesn’t have to look for the tribute for too long as he is standing in the first line. He walks the stairs surprisingly calmly. At least judging by his appearance nobody would expect him to be one of the proud and courageous ones.  
  
“You don’t look very surprised,” Shakira notes.  
  
“How could I,” Sergi says bluntly. “My name was there eighty times.”  
  
Shakira smiles at him sympathetically and goes back to the bowl. Picking a paper from the top this time, she unfolds it and reads the name.  
  
“Pedro Rodríguez.”  
  
Pedro walks up to the stage and shakes hands with Sergi.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Barcelona tributes, Sergi Roberto and Pedro Rodríguez!” Shakira announces. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”_  
  
Bojan looks at Sergio who looks half worried, half distressed.  
  
“Another one like that,” he sighs.  
  
“Like what?” Bojan asks.  
  
“Like me.”  
  
Bojan bows his head. He knows Sergio’s story, knows how many times his name was in the reaping the year he had to go to the Games. Before he can say something, the Atlético Madrid badge appears on the screen and he lifts his head again.  
  
 _Sara Carbonero, the escort for Atlético Madrid, is another celebrity. There is one special thing about her – she is dating a former victor from Real Madrid, Iker Casillas, who will also be one of the mentors.  
  
She doesn’t beat about things as much as Pilar, but also doesn’t show any sympathy like Shakira. She is purely professional.  
  
“Diego Costa!” she announces after drawing the first name.  
  
A man in the second row smirks and walks up to the stage. He looks like someone who would calmly volunteer if he felt like it, but was too lazy to do it. Sara gives him an appreciative smile and reaches in the bowl again.  
  
“Jorge Resurección!”  
  
This time she has to wait longer as the tribute is standing quite far from the stage and also has to free himself from the grip of the man standing next to him. When the cameras focus on his face, he looks like he doesn’t yet fully understand what is happening. When Costa shakes his hand and smirks at him, he just looks at him with a stern face.  
  
“Looking at you, gentlemen,” Sara says contentedly. “I believe in an Atlético Madrid victor this year.”_  
  
“Well,” Sergio says. “She may be right.”  
  
“That Costa looks like he would kill his own mother to win the Games,” Bojan nods.  
  
 _The escort for Athletic Bilbao appears on the stage in an exquisite green dress. She puts all her effort into creating a solemn atmosphere, and it doesn’t even take much effort here. It’s what makes the reaping easier for her. Before she can reach into the ball, a man steps out of the crowd.  
  
“I volunteer as tribute!” he announces.  
  
The escort smiles contentedly and spreads her arms.  
  
“Come up, then!” she bellows and waits for him to walk up to the stage. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Carlos Gurpegui.”  
  
“Very well, Carlos,” the escort says and turns back to the bowl. “And now...”  
  
“I also volunteer,” another voice sounds from the crowd and another man steps out.  
  
It almost takes the escort by surprise, but she composes herself and motions for him to come up.  
  
“And your name?”  
  
“Ander Iturraspe.”  
  
“Brilliant!” the escort’s smile gets wider. “Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the 50th La Liga Games, Carlos Gurpegui and Ander Iturraspe. Shake hands, please!”  
  
The two shake hands in a friendly way, suggesting that they knew all along that they would end up there together and that they are only going to become opponents later on in the arena. Taking them around the shoulders, the escort gives the cameras a perfectly practiced smile.  
  
“I just love Bilbao!” she states._  
  
“They almost looked happy to go there,” Bojan whispers.  
  
“The two probably waited for years for this opportunity,” Sergio says. “Bilbao are fierce, it’s a matter of honor to fight in the Games for them. They know what they’re doing.”  
  
“So I should watch out for them.”  
  
“Definitely.”  
  
“So far you told me to watch out for everybody!” Bojan objects.  
  
“That’s right,” Sergio nods. “Because you have to watch out for everybody. But I’m putting up a special warning on these two.”  
  
The next few teams are a blur. Nothing exceptional happens in Villarreal, where Bruno Soriano and Tomás Pina are selected. Soriano looks indifferent and Pina is somewhat cheerful, thought nobody can be sure if it’s not just a game he plays for the cameras. Real Sociedad select Haris Seferović and Rubén Pardo, for Sevilla the tributes are Diogo Figueiras and Ivan Rakitić. Sergio points out that he expects Modrić and Rakitić to become allies later on, but it’s just a deduction. Levante select Juanfran and Nagore, Espanyol Kiko Casilla and Felipe Mattioni. Then the Valencia badge appears on the screen and Sergio tenses.  
  
 _The escort looks a lot less enthusiastic than the ones from the first four teams. She reaches in the ball and reads the name on the paper.  
  
“Paco Alcácer!”_  
  
“No, no, not Paco!” Sergio whispers. “His life is shit even without the Games!”  
  
 _The tribute makes his way through the crowd slowly. He looks like he is about to faint any moment.  
  
“I volunteer.”  
  
All heads snap towards the place where the voice came from. The man walks out of the crowd, lays a hand on Paco’s shoulder and then walks up the stairs.  
  
“Well,” the escorts says, taken aback – volunteers are not a common thing in Valencia. “What is your name?”  
  
“Diego Alves.”  
  
“I suppose you are... related somehow?”  
  
“No,” Diego says dryly. “Does it matter?”  
  
The escort smiles awkwardly and reaches for the other paper.  
  
“Joao Pereira!”  
  
Joao looks like someone hit him in the face at first, but composes himself and joins Diego on the stage. After the escort cheerfully says “May the odds be ever in your favor!”, Joao just shakes his head and looks at Diego.  
  
“Yeah, they totally will be,” Diego smirks._  
  
Bojan looks at Sergio shyly. He knows that to survive, he has to kill also these two tributes. People Sergio apparently knows. He doesn’t know how on Earth he is going to do it. Probably he will have to hope for someone else to kill them so that if the odds get crazy and he by some miracle survives, he will not be ashamed to look Sergio in the eyes.  
  
Nothing interesting happens in Granada where Yacine Brahimi and Francisco Medina, called by Brahimi “Piti”, are selected. Getafe select Miguel Ángel Moyá and Alexis Ruano. Alexis actually has quite some attitude for someone from a district like Getafe, but as Sergio doesn’t really warn Bojan about him, Bojan doesn’t pay a lot of attention to him.  
  
The emission ends with the La Liga anthem. Sergio switches off the TV and looks out of the window of the train.  
  
Bojan watches him for a moment, biting his nails nervously.  
  
“Sergio?” he asks then.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That Diego... why did he volunteer?”  
  
“He’s just like that,” Sergio says curtly.  
  
“And...”  
  
“You better get ready,” Sergio says. “We’ll be in the Capitol soon.”  
  
Bojan sighs deeply. He understands that Sergio has feelings, but this definitely isn’t the mentoring he imagined. Taking a piece of meat from the table, he retreats in his compartment and bangs the door behind him.


	2. Two

Luckily over the years, the Gamemakers abandoned the tradition of ridiculous costumes for the parade and decided to stick to the jerseys instead. The tributes are all going to die, except one. There’s no need to embarrass them before that.  
  
Bojan feels awkward when he puts on the jersey of his original district, Barcelona. It’s a strange coincidence that Gerard is originally from the same district. They get the second jersey to distinguish them from the Barcelona tributes.  
  
“I was hoping to get to wear the blaugrana for the last time in my life,” Gerard sighs. “And instead I’m stuck with this orange horror.”  
  
Bojan knows it should have been a joke, but somehow he doesn’t find it funny.  
  
Iturraspe and Gurpegui are discussing something, leaning over the wall casually, both in their red and white jerseys. When Bojan passes them by, they don’t even acknowledge him. Then he hears them laugh, actually laugh, and wonders how the hell he is going to survive among people like that.  
  
He doesn’t really fit in there. The tributes from the same districts usually talk to each other, or at least stay close to each other. They seem to already think of strategies and look for allies. Sergio told him that he absolutely needed to get allies, but looking at the other tributes he has no idea who he should become allies with.  
  
Modrić hasn’t yet shown any signs of understanding he was a part of the Games. As for Morata, Bojan can’t imagine him killing a rabbit, leave alone killing people.  
  
“Stop thinking like that!” Sergio snaps. “Do I look like I would kill anyone?”  
  
“No,” Bojan shakes his head.  
  
“Right, and I wouldn’t, normally. But in the arena, people change. This sweetie will slit your throat in no time if it gets him a step closer to survival.”  
  
Bojan sighs and looks at the other tributes. Sergi Roberto is sort of enigmatic, acting like he believes that he either has all the chances to win the Games, or absolutely none. Bojan thinks of Pedro. Pedro looks like the most reasonable option. He’s apparently strong but not sticking to other tributes yet.  
  
“Well, Pedro may be an option,” Sergio nods. “The problem is that most of the tributes will want him as an ally if he is indeed that good.”  
  
“What about the Valencia guys?”  
  
“Joao maybe, Diego, I think, doesn’t give a damn about alliance. I expect him to try to outsmart the others rather than killing them, so he will most probably stay alone.”  
  
“In other words, I’m fucked.”  
  
“No...” Sergio says exasperatedly. “Well... you are, but maybe we can still do something about it.”  
  
*  
  
The parade is the most awful thing Bojan ever experienced. He feels like an animal, with the whole Capitol staring at him and talking about him like he is a horse they are deciding to bet on or not. When he looks at the other tributes, he is probably the only one thinking like that. Most of them look indifferent, but some, he would say, already have their camera faces on, definitely instructed by their mentors.  
  
Morata has that sweet, shy smile that almost looks genuine, like the Capitol isn’t in fact getting him killed but doing him a big favor. Pedro opted for a stern face while Sergi Roberto even manages to wave to the crowd shyly. Gurpegui and Iturraspe look like they own the Capitol instead of the Capitol owning them. Diego Costa looks like he has already murdered thousands of people and is ready to murder some more. Koke is somewhat bored and Diego Alves looks like the whole Capitol can kiss his ass.  
  
As the carriages circle before President Florentino Pérez, there is a little accident when the Espanyol carriage stops abruptly and Felipe Mattioni falls out of it, but luckily the camera guys are quick enough to focus the cameras on Florentino before Mattioni scrambles back to the carriage.  
  
Florentino has a speech about the Games and how proud the tributes should be of representing their districts. Bojan notices Gurpegui and Iturraspe looking at each other and nodding in agreement. He classifies them as mentally ill, possibly psychopaths. He also notices Florentino’s gaze lingering on Morata for a while in a satisfied way. It’s probably because he still has that smitten, grateful smile plastered on his face. On the contrary, when he looks at Diego Alves, Bojan would say that if there is a way to influence who will die first, Florentino already has his candidate.  
  
*  
  
When he goes to the elevator of his building after the parade, Bojan spots the Atlético Madrid escort, Sara Carbonero, talking to Iker Casillas.  
  
“No, Sara, you know I can’t tell you anything!” Iker whispers. “They are tributes from my district, you’re an escort for Atlético!”  
  
“Come on, Iker!” Sara laughs. “What will it change? Who of your tributes do you think can beat Costa and Koke? Modrić? Or Morata? Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
“I don’t write people off before I’ve seen them fight. Only Cristiano does that.”  
  
Sara just laughs quietly.  
  
“It’s not your work to think of the strategy, leave it up to the mentors,” Iker says.  
  
Sara folds her arms.  
  
“When Forlán won the Games, whose merit was it?”  
  
“Yours,” Iker sighs. “I’ve heard. I gotta go. See you later.”  
  
“He still sends me flowers!” Sara yells after him. “Every month!”  
  
*  
  
When Bojan wakes up the next morning, Sergio is waiting in the dining room. The table is full of food. The Capitol probably has a motto “if you have to kill them, at least feed them first”.  
  
“Eat your breakfast,” Sergio says.  
  
Bojan would joke about him taking the mentoring too seriously if he was in the mood for joking.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” he says.  
  
“Eat!” Sergio snaps. “You have the training session today.”  
  
“What actually do you do in that session?” Bojan asks.  
  
It’s a part of the Games that is not really seen on TV, they only show the scores the tributes had at the private session with the Gamemakers.  
  
“Train. Prepare for what can wait for you in the arena. Weapons, camouflage skills, stuff like that,” Sergio says. “Listen now. You have to show them what you’re the best at. Not just the Gamemakers, all the tributes so that they want to form an alliance with you.”  
  
“What is that?” Bojan asks.  
  
“What?” Sergio asks.  
  
“What am I the best at?”  
  
Sergio sighs.  
  
“Maybe you’ll figure it out today,” he says then and attempts an encouraging smile.  
  
He fails miserably.  
  
*  
  
If Bojan was upset before, after the first hour of the training session he is deeply depressed.  
  
Costa is swinging an axe in the air. Iturraspe and Gurpegui are wielding swords, their moves being completely similar like they are robots created by the same person and programmed identically. Even Morata is shooting arrows at the targets and once he overcomes the initial shyness caused by the many pairs of eyes watching him, he actually rarely misses the bull’s eye.  
  
Modrić is climbing the constructions around the room, making profit of his small stature and flexibility. Koke is throwing heavy balls around like they are feathers. Even Tomás Pina doesn’t look entirely lost there, tying cords and throwing nets. Rakitić seems interested in the herbs and mushrooms while the Levante and Espanyol guys are working on their camouflage skills.  
  
Bojan doesn’t really know what to do. He uses knives to peel potatoes and swords are something he’s seen only in the movies. The most familiar thing in the room seems to be a baseball bat, but he doesn’t know what to do with it exactly. He could probably smash something with it, at least it would get some of his anger out.  
  
Diego Alves is sitting on a wooden crate, watching everyone with an ironic smirk on his face. When Bojan already thinks that Diego won’t move a finger even when the Careers come to mock him, he gets up, grabs a throwing knife and throws it at one of the targets, hitting the bull’s eye and causing Morata’s arrow to fall to the ground. Then he bows mockingly to the other tributes and leaves the room.  
  
Bojan is sure that he’s not the only one who gulps after that.  
  
*  
  
The moment the door of the personal apartment closes after him, he bursts out with anger.  
  
“The only thing I know how to use is a baseball bat, and even that not as a weapon!” he yells.  
  
“I’m sure you’re not the only one,” Sergio says quietly.  
  
“No? You’d have to see them! Iturraspe and Gurpegui are killing machines, Costa is an animal and Koke could probably throw Mount Everest at me! And Alves will outsmart me using a throwing knife, it seems.”  
  
“Forget about Alves, forget about everyone!” Sergio yells. “You keep looking at the others and forget about yourself!”  
  
“Then what is the strategy you have for me?” Bojan folds his arms.  
  
“You need to get a weapon. You absolutely need to.”  
  
“That means you want me to go to the initial bloodbath,” Bojan states.  
  
“Without a weapon you won’t last much longer even if you don’t go there,” Sergio says. “The best weapons are inside the Cornucopia, but you’re not too likely to get them, the Careers will make sure of that. Try to grab whatever you can.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“Run away and hide.”  
  
“Good,” Bojan says, calming down a little bit.  
  
At least now it sounds like a reasonable plan.  
  
“Sergio?” he asks then.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“How do you do it?” Bojan whispers. “How do you... kill someone?”  
  
Sergio opens his mouth and then closes it.  
  
“It will come by itself,” he says then. “You will see.”  
  
*  
  
The next evening they are sitting in the lounge, watching the scores from the private session with the Gamemakers. There is always the tribute’s picture on the screen and then the score from 1 to 12, with 12 being the best score possible.  
  
Luka Modrić gets a 5, which seems to calm Sergio down a little bit. Bojan can’t be calm because he is sure that his score will be even worse. If Modrić’s stunts on the constructions didn’t impress them, him hitting things with a baseball bat surely didn’t either.  
  
Álvaro Morata scores a 9, which seems like an understatement to Bojan, but he supposes the Gamemakers had to keep some reserve for the likes of Costa.  
  
When Sergi Roberto gets a 9, Bojan is close to crying. That kid looks like he can’t count to ten, he has no idea what he could have done to impress the Gamemakers.  
  
Pedro gets a 10. When he remembers his skills with spears, Bojan can’t be even surprised.  
  
Koke gets a 10 as well. He would have gotten a higher note if there were heavier things to throw, Bojan thinks.  
  
It’s of course an 11 for Costa, Gurpegui and Iturraspe. Simply because the Gamemakers only give 12 to people they want to see killed. 11 is the highest note of appreciation.  
  
The other tributes score between 5 and 7, with the exception of Diego Alves who manages to get an 8.  
  
Then Gerard’s face appears on the screen. He scores a 4. Bojan blinks. He’s seen Gerard with the bow and arrows and he wasn’t that bad. Nowhere near Morata, but still could at least hit the target. The only explanation that comes to his mind is that Gerard actually wanted the low score, and thus wanted the other tributes to underestimate him.  
  
Bojan clenches his fists when he sees his face on the screen. Then his score appears next to it. 7.  
  
Sergio gives him a wide smile.  
  
“See? And you said you were awful! What did you do?”  
  
“I...” Bojan blushes. “Well, I took a baseball bat and started smashing the heads of the training dummies while imagining they were Florentino.”  
  
Sergio laughs for good five minutes.  
  
*  
  
“The interviews are important, alright?” Sergio says when they are getting ready. “It’s not just some talking. It can get you sponsors.”  
  
There is a bunch of people fretting over Bojan, dressing him up in an expensive suit and doing his hair and the main stylist is wondering whether they should use the jacket with dots. Bojan hopes they decide against it. He still remembers Messi appearing for his interview in something similar. Everyone says it was the dotted jacket that lost him the Games.  
  
“But... how can I even influence it when I don’t know what they will ask me?” Bojan asks.  
  
“It’s not about answers, it’s about attitude, charisma,” Sergio explains.  
  
Bojan’s mind wanders to the evening of Sergio’s interview three years ago. He couldn’t even recognize Sergio the first time he saw him on the screen. He always knew him as a rather shy boy from the poor side of the district, a boy nobody ever noticed on the streets. Only Bojan knew his true side, it was their little secret and it made Sergio a bit more Bojan’s. But that evening on the stage in Capitol, it was a completely different Sergio. It was a sweet, charming boy with a bright smile, a bit naïve but confident. It was the Sergio Bojan knew and it all felt like a betrayal of some sort, like Sergio just took the secret they had and flashed it to the whole Capitol just like that. Bojan knew that it was a part of the game, that it could save Sergio’s life, but it still hurt him.  
  
“Fine,” Bojan says then. “So who am I supposed to be tonight?”  
  
*  
  
The tributes waiting for their interview are watching what is happening on the stage on a screen in the backstage. Some are nervously pulling at the too-tight ties around their necks, jealously watching Gurpegui and Iturraspe who were spared the tie by their stylist. Alexis is wondering if tearing the awful purple bow-tie off his neck would have serious consequences. Costa spends the time laughing at the other tributes and cursing at his stylist for not allowing him to wear his black gloves for the interview.  
  
 _Luka Modrić has the charisma of an average hammer. The interviewer doesn’t even know what to ask him. He speaks about his performance at the private session (that was average), asks about his strongest point (which Modrić doesn’t think he has) and asks if he wants to tell anything to anyone (no). He looks almost relieved when the interview is over and it’s time for Morata’s.  
  
When Morata appears on the stage in his suit, a few of the girls from Capitol actually faint. From Cristiano Ronaldo’s contented smile, it’s exactly the reaction he expected. If there is something Cristiano is good at, it’s getting sponsors for his tributes.  
  
“Your mentor is Cristiano Ronaldo, he’s a legend of these games, practically came out of the arena without a scratch. Did he give you any good advice?” the interviewer asks.  
  
“He told me that in the Games, you only get one choice. You can be the hunter or the prey. And I want to be the hunter.”_  
  
‘Told’ is a very mild expression. Cristiano ‘tells’ that to all his tributes. Slaps their faces, shakes them and yells it at them until they either yell back that they want to be the hunters, or break down and cry, which is the moment he writes them off. People think Cristiano didn’t suffer any harm in the Games. The other mentors think he suffered a serious one.  
  
 _“Would you want to say anything to the people of Capitol?”  
  
Morata lets his eyes wander over the audience.  
  
“I would like to say that over the few days here, you were amazing, you were very kind to me and I felt really welcome here. I want to win because I would like to come back and get to know you better.”_  
  
The applause makes it clear that they eat it up completely. Diego Costa snorts and pushes away his stylist that wants to powder his nose one last time.  
  
 _It’s Sergi Roberto’s time. If he’s playing on his sweet looks, it’s not as obvious as with Morata. His game is more about innocence than seduction.  
  
The interviewer praises his score at the private session and Sergi smiles like a student being praised for his homework.  
  
“What motivates you to win the Games?” the interviewer asks then.  
  
“I... I have to win,” Sergi says, blinking his blue eyes at the camera. “I have a family I have to come back to.”_  
  
“Oh, fuck, someone give me a tissue!” Costa says and half of the tributes burst out with laughter.  
  
“You’re just jealous you’re never going to pull off this innocent face, Costa,” Gurpegui notes.  
  
“Right,” Costa nods. “Unfortunately I lack the angelic looks of Morata and Roberto. I’m sure they’d help me a lot in the arena.”  
  
 _Pedro is actually the only one not playing any game. He stays reserved and rather cold, like he doesn’t care about winning the hearts of the people in Capitol. His mind is set on the arena already.  
  
Koke might have looked quite intimidating in the training room, but he proves to be quite a joker during the interview. He makes fun of David Villa, his mentor, and his soul patch, and the audience laughs genuinely._  
  
Bojan thinks he’s going to die of embarrassment when he has to go there.  
  
 _Diego Costa doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not the ruthless one. After all, there are people in the Capitol that like exactly that. They can count on the likes of Costa to give them blood.  
  
Gurpegui may be good with swords, but he is no big speaker. His answers are short and reserved.  
  
Iturraspe has a different attitude. He’s laid-back, answers the interviewer’s questions willingly, but always gives the impression of withholding something from the audience, like he has secrets he can’t reveal. When the interviewer asks him about him volunteering alongside Gurpegui and their apparently good relationship, he even looks surprised that someone could find it strange.  
  
“We came here as friends and we’ll go to the arena as a team,” he says firmly. “Then when it comes down to the two of us... the better one will win.”_  
  
“They’re absolutely convinced it will end like that!” Bojan breathes out.  
  
“What’s the chance that it won’t?” Joao Pereira smirks. “Remember Llorente and Iraola? Same scenario. Stuck together till the end. Llorente is a hero now and Iraola went down in style. I guess that’s how you win the Games... or lose in them for that matter.”  
  
“Say whatever you want, but going to the Games with your friend knowing you’re going to fight each other to death is sick,” Rakitić notes.  
  
“I guess it’s a Basque thing,” Joao shrugs.  
  
 _Nobody else outshines the first tributes in the interviews. Tomás Pina tries too hard, Mattioni gets offended when the interviewer reminds him of his carriage accident, Diego Alves is sarcastic and Alexis has a really bad sense of humor._  
  
When it’s Bojan’s time to go on stage, he completely forgets what was the attitude he was supposed to have. The lights on the stage are almost blinding and he’s only happy that he can’t really see the crowd.  
  
“So, Bojan,” the interviewer says in a friendly voice. “You are a special tribute. Nobody expected you would be here. What was your reaction when you found out you would compete in the Games?”  
  
Bojan swallows hard. He can’t think of anything intelligent to say. So he decides to be honest.  
  
“I couldn’t believe it,” he says.  
  
Luckily it sounds almost like he’s happy about it.  
  
“You had the right to choose your mentor and you chose Sergio Canales, one of the less experienced mentors. Why was that?”  
  
Again, Bojan can’t play any game even if he wants to.  
  
“Because I trust him,” he almost whispers. “Like anyone else. And he knows me better than anyone else. And also...”  
  
He bites his lip and the interviewer leans closer to him with an intrigued look on his face.  
  
“Also?” he prompts.  
  
“I wanted to spend the last days with him,” Bojan says.  
  
The audience awww-s in unison and the interviewer smiles.  
  
“Well, that sounds like you don’t believe that you could win,” he suggests.  
  
“The other tributes are strong,” Bojan says honestly. “I’m not a pessimist, I’m rather realistic. I’d rather not put anyone’s expectations up and then disappoint.”  
  
“We are sure you will not disappoint,” the interviewer assures him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Bojan Krkić!”  
  
*  
  
“You were great,” Sergio smiles when they are back in their building. “You were the down-to-earth, intelligent, humble guy. There are people who can relate to that, even in the Capitol.”  
  
“Really?” Bojan asks.  
  
“Yes,” Sergio nods. “You do have a good starting position. You scored 7, so they won’t underestimate you, but they’re also not going to be after you immediately. And you made a good impression.”  
  
Bojan takes off the jacket and throws it on the chair, then kicks off the polished shoes that are too uncomfortable because they are new. He hopes that the clothes they will give them tomorrow for the Games will be more comfortable.  
  
“Sergio?” he asks then.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Can we... tonight... I mean... I mean it’s the last night.”  
  
He’s never been the shy guy, but suddenly the thought of sharing the bed seems to be something forbidden, something rare, sacred even. Maybe because it’s, most probably, the last time.  
  
“We can,” Sergio whispers. “But it’s not the last time.”  
  
Bojan smiles bitterly but doesn’t object, doesn’t start an argument. He just pulls Sergio closer to him and kisses him until the thoughts of the Games are pushed to the very backs of their minds.  
  
*  
  
The mentors don’t travel with the tributes to the place where the arena stands, so the final goodbyes have to be said before they get on the plane that is supposed to take them there. Cristiano is urgently whispering some last pieces of advice to Morata and then gives him an almost fatherly hug. Some mentors raise their brows at this because Cristiano usually keeps his distance from everyone.  
  
Bojan and Sergio prefer to say their goodbye quickly and briefly, because they feel like they already did so last night. Bojan then walks in the direction of the plane slowly.  
  
“Sergio?” someone says.  
  
Sergio turns around and looks at Diego Alves.  
  
“Are you alright?” Diego asks.  
  
Sergio blushes. It’s Diego who should be distressed when in an hour he’ll be in the arena, and yet he feels like he has to asks Sergio if he’s alright. He decides to immediately compose himself, for the sake of Bojan at least.  
  
“Yeah, I am,” he nods. “Good luck!”  
  
Diego smiles and shakes Sergio’s hand.  
  
“Goodbye, Sergio.”  
  
There is such finality and peace in those words that Sergio’s composure goes to hell as soon as Diego turns his back to him. He leans over the wall and doesn’t even try to stop the tears running down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Games usually start with a parade of the tributes in front of the Capitol citizens. The the tributes train together, practicing survival skills and learning to use weapons. At the end of the training they have a private session with the Gamemakers where they try to show their best skills. The gamemakers then give them a score that can help them get sponsors and allies.  
> \- The sponsors are important because they can buy things that the tributes need, and the mentors then can send them to the arena. Even the simple things as bread or a bandage can get extremely expensive throughout the Games. The sponsors are usually wealthy people who bet on one of the tributes and then support him.


	3. Three

The arena looks like a normal landscape with deep forests around the Cornucopia.  _At least there is no water and no snow_ , Bojan thinks.  
  
A few years ago when David Silva won the Games, the arena was basically full of water, and the water full of piranhas. He survived because he managed to get to one of the small islands (for some reason the piranhas weren’t after him as much as after the other tributes). Then he built a small raft and stayed on it for most of the time. The Games were decided in the last duel when the other remaining tribute pulled him off the raft and tried to drown him. Silva managed to stab him with a knife made of fish bones and the piranhas that smelled the blood took care of the rest. After the Games, however, Silva was declared mentally too unstable to even become a mentor.  
  
Then the year when Cristiano Ronaldo won, the arena was made up of snow and ice. Cristiano had wealthy sponsors who sent him warm clothes. He had a lot easier work after half of his opponents froze to death.  
  
Bojan focuses on the closest surroundings. It’s clear that whatever is close to the Cornucopia will be more valuable than what is relatively close to the platforms the tributes are standing on. There are some backpacks, sleeping bags and packs of food scattered around that could be reached without getting too close to the Cornucopia, but it’s what the Gamemakers count on. The Careers will want the best weapons, the others will kill each other over the rest.  
  
When the gong rings out, the two Careers from Bilbao, Costa and Pedro of course sprint right to the Cornucopia. Not that he has much time to look, but Bojan notices that they are not going after each other. Definitely an alliance formed prior to the Games.  
  
Tomás Pina from Villarreal grabs a backpack that is the closest to his platform and sprints to the forests. Luka Modrić prefers to run for his life without getting anything, so does Alexis from Getafe.  
  
But Sergio made it clear.  _Get a weapon._  Bojan notices a knife laying on the ground still far away enough from the Cornucopia. He wouldn’t have to come too close to the Careers to get it. He heads in that direction and almost bends down to pick it up when someone bumps into him and then shoves him away. He lands on the ground and just watches on as Sergi Roberto picks up the knife.  
  
Maybe he really misjudged the boy.  
  
Rolling out of Sergi’s reach and feeling for something else he could take, he spots one of the Real Sociedad tributes trying to take a sleeping bag from Koke. This proves to be a bad idea as Koke sends him to the ground with one well placed blow at his chin, grabs the sleeping bag, a net and a spear and flees before anyone else can approach him.  
  
Koke’s victim gets up from the ground slowly. In the very next moment he falls next to Bojan with a knife in his heart. Two things fly through Bojan’s mind. First, either everyone who said Iturraspe’s best skills were with a sword was wrong, or he has more best skills. Second, it’s high time for him to get the fuck out of there, weapons be damned.  
  
He waits for the Careers to be distracted by the Levante tributes who in a desperate temporary alliance are trying to take possession of a tent and a slingshot on the left side of the Cornucopia. Then he gets up and prays for Iturraspe to choose a different target.  
  
Just as he darts towards the forest, Álvaro Morata sprints past him, shoves away Rakitić, dodges Iturraspe’s knife, grabs a bow and a quiver with arrows and is gone before anyone can blink.  
  
Bojan is sure that somewhere in the Capitol, Cristiano Ronaldo is beaming with pride right now.  
  
*  
  
At the Games Headquarters in the Capitol, the mentors are carefully watching their tributes, some of them more contentedly than the others.  
  
Once the fights at the Cornucopia are over, the cameras follow the individual tributes. Most of them are still running away from the Cornucopia, except for the Careers and their allies who decided to stay and go through the supplies once they have time to do it.  
  
Sergio is chewing on his bottom lip. Bojan is still alive, though without weapons and supplies. He can’t really blame him, though. The bloodbath was worse than everyone expected. They thought the alliances would be formed only after it, not before. Like this, Iturraspe had plenty of time to throw his knives while Pedro and Gurpegui backed him up, and whatever he missed, Diego Costa took care of with his axe. Even the stronger tributes like Koke and Morata preferred to just grab things around the Cornucopia and flee.  
  
 _Luka Modrić finds some cave and hides there. Runs out two seconds later pursued by a swarm of giant bats.  
  
Gerard Deulofeu hides in the forests close to the Cornucopia with hope of sneaking in there again for supplies. Stays in his hideout for hours, not finding the courage to come out.  
  
Tomás Pina gets to a safer place and inspects the contents of the backpack he managed to get. It contains a pack of dried fruit, crackers, socks and rope. He contemplates hanging himself with the rope for good two minutes but then decides against it.  
  
Ivan Rakitić seems not to have abandoned his obsession with herbs and foods as he inspects all of them on the way. He finds some berries, but isn’t sure they are edible, so he prefers not to eat them. Contents himself with some roots.  
  
Koke looks like he has his plan clear. He is systematically looking for water while also carefully observing whether there are any animals he could hunt to get food._  
  
Sergio hopes that Bojan will figure out that he needs to find water as soon as possible. It is not yet clear where the source is in the arena. Everything around the Cornucopia are forests with some rocks and caves here and there. But in one way or another the tributes have to have access to water. Otherwise it would be a quite boring show.  
  
 _The cameras find Rubén Pardo who doesn’t look like he is still entirely sane. He is chewing on a pine cone and mumbling something unintelligible._  
  
Sara Carbonero rolls her eyes, mutters something that sounds like “a fail of a tribute” and then walks up to David Villa resolutely.  
  
“Time to set up the strategy,” she says.  
  
*  
  
Bojan only stops running after an hour or two. He is becoming slightly paranoid because he keeps hearing steps behind him, but when he stops, they stop. It takes him half an hour to realize they are his own footsteps.  
  
He can’t stop scolding himself. He didn’t get any weapons, he didn’t get anything, didn’t form an alliance, he simply didn’t do anything that Sergio told him to do, except of running away. The next part was “hide”, so he decides to work on that.  
  
The trees around him are young pines. He figures that he couldn’t hide well enough between them or on them. So he continues further. It’s not like he can get lost here. He doesn’t know what the arena looks like anyway, and the people in the Capitol know very well where he is. The place on his arm where they inserted the tracking device under his skin still stings a bit to remind him that somewhere far away, the Gamemakers can see his every step on their computers.  
  
He remembers when Mattioni asked on the plane why they were even doing it when there was no way to escape from the arena.  
  
“It’s not for when you’re alive,” Costa answered with a sweet smile. “But when you’re dead, it will be easier for them to find your body... or what remains of it.”  
  
Mattioni started to cry after that and Pardo fainted. Iturraspe looked at Costa like he wanted to tell him something not very nice, and only the needle going through his skin stopped him from it. Bojan wonders if their alliance would have been even formed if he got to tell Costa what he thought about his explications.  
  
*  
  
When he finds some bigger trees, it’s already getting dark. It’s also getting quite cold. Bojan thinks that the sleeping bags, garments and tents were around the Cornucopia for a reason. The thin jacket he has on is not nearly enough to keep him warm.  
  
He’s also getting hungry and thirsty. As for hunger, he hopes to find something edible around, like nuts or berries at least. To hunt animals he would need weapons or at least traps. What worries him more is water. He didn’t even see any full water bottles laying around the Cornucopia, so he figures that the Gamemakers want the tributes to move around and search for it. But he is too tired to go further. He decides to look for water tomorrow. And hope that it for example starts to rain in the meanwhile.  
  
He decides to hide on a tree as it’s the safest option there is. He doesn’t want the Careers to trip over him in the dark. He climbs a willow that looks sort of solid and finds the most comfortable place on it.  
  
Then La Liga anthem sounds loudly, the sound coming from all directions and from nowhere at the same time. The badges of all twelve districts appear in the sky. It’s time for the death recap.  
  
Bojan doesn’t expect to see any of the faces from the first four districts. They are too good for it, maybe except of Modrić, but he’s at least good at hiding. It doesn’t thus surprise him when the first face he can see is that of Bruno Soriano. Follow those of Seferović, Figueiras, both of the Levante tributes, Nagore and Juanfran, Mattioni from Espanyol, Brahimi from Granada and Moyá from Getafe. Then the anthem ends and the sky goes black again.  
  
Bojan counts carefully. It means that all the tributes from the first four districts are alive, some of them apparently in an alliance. He saw Modrić running away without any weapons, so he is presumably hiding somewhere same as Bojan himself is. Morata got the bow and arrows but seemed to stay by himself. He also saw Koke getting out of the bloodbath and Pina running off with a backpack. Alexis ran away as well. He doesn’t know anything about the other tributes’ whereabouts but suspects that most of them preferred to save their lives rather than trying to get too close to the Cornucopia. When there is Costa in the way between you and a weapon, there is simply no way you are getting the weapon.  
  
He tries to remember if he saw the other tributes, but can’t think of anyone. Joao Pereira and Diego Alves are both still alive. They might be together. Also Rakitić made it so maybe he and Modrić could reunite and form an alliance. And Gerard is still out there somewhere. Bojan wonders why they never thought of becoming allies. Now he would give anything to have someone by his side, even temporarily.  
  
He decides not to think about anything anymore. He just promises himself that he will find water tomorrow and get something to eat. Maybe he could try to make a makeshift weapon.  
  
He is almost falling asleep when something rouses him from the drowse. A branch cracks under someone’s feet. He can hear steps and someone’s breath.  _Go away, go away, go away._  
  
The person stops. Then Bojan hears the leaves rustle. The stranger sits down and apparently settles there.  
  
 _It can only happen to me. There are thousands of trees but someone decides to camp under the one I’m hiding on._  
  
When he thinks it can’t be worse than that, there is a spark and soon enough flames appear. The person is Alexis and he just decided to make a bonfire.  
  
*  
  
“So...” Sara says, shooting a careful look around her to ensure none of the mentors are listening. “I suppose we should focus on Koke because Costa is apparently alright.”  
  
“Yes,” David Villa nods. “Do you know about any sponsors yet? Because I think most people bet on Costa anyway.”  
  
“I will check the bets over the night,” Sara says.  
  
“Aren’t they supposed to be secret?” Villa raises his brows.  
  
“They are, but nothing is secret for Sara Carbonero,” Sara smiles. “Once people get drunk they will start to boast with who they bet on and how much. That will help us make a list.”  
  
Villa nods and looks at the screen. He knows he is one of the luckier mentors. Some already have one of their tributes dead, the Levante ones even both. Others are fearing every minute. His tributes should make it longer than a few hours.  
  
*  
  
It doesn’t take long until Bojan sees something move between the trees. Without a doubt they are people, and there’s more of them. That can only mean one thing. The Careers and their allies. Bojan more feels than sees or hears the group approaching him. He doesn’t even dare to breathe.  
  
“Do you see what I see?” Iturraspe’s voice sounds from the dark.  
  
“Yeah,” Gurpegui laughs. “Someone is really stupid. Let’s go.”  
  
They run closer, encircling the tree, staying just far away enough from the fire to ensure Alexis couldn’t use it to his advantage by for example kicking the embers in their faces.  
  
“Afraid of the dark, Alexis, aren’t you?” Iturraspe laughs.  
  
“Don’t worry, in a while you won’t be afraid of anything,” Costa says and raises his axe.  
  
Bojan closes his eyes and grips the branch tighter. Still, it’s not enough to block out the sounds. He just keeps praying they wouldn’t see him, hear him or sense him. There is not a big chance they could see him through the branches in the dark, but if he made some noise, they would certainly start inspecting the surroundings.  
  
“Won’t you finish him off?” Gurpegui asks then.  
  
“Yes, be useful for once if you said you could be!” Pedro’s voice sounds a bit amused.  
  
Bojan frowns as he can’t figure out who they are talking to. No way they would be talking this way to Costa or Iturraspe, so there has to be someone else.  
  
“If you could just get a clean kill I wouldn’t have to clean up after you,” someone says.  
  
“Do you imply anything?” Costa growls.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Fine. So finish him off and we’ll get going. We need to find water, guys, I’m as thirsty as a desert.”  
  
Bojan can hear their steps and then the mysterious person comes into view. When he kneels down next to the fire, the flames light his face for a moment and Bojan almost falls off the tree.  
  
It’s Sergi Roberto.


	4. Four

“What the hell is Roberto doing with the Careers?” Cristiano asks while spreading low-fat marmalade on his toast.  
  
“Trying to survive, I guess,” Carles Puyol mutters.  
  
“This was your strategy, Puyol? Letting him play tough?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Puyol shakes his head. “I told him to get the fuck away as quick as possible. But he kept telling me he didn’t need a strategy.”  
  
Cristiano shrugs and finishes his toast. Wiping his fingers on a napkin and carefully checking for crumbles on his clothes, he gets up and smiles charmingly.  
  
“Back to work!” he says and waves at someone behind Puyol’s shoulder. “Mr. Zidane? Mr. Zidane, can we talk for a minute?”  
  
*  
  
Bojan wakes up with the first sun rays. He’s cold, thirsty and hungry, his limbs completely numb and his back hurts like hell. He slowly climbs down the tree. Alexis’ fire is long out, but the ashes are still hot. Bojan warms his hands above them for a while.  
  
The hovercraft took Alexis’ body as soon as Sergi was gone, but Bojan didn’t find the courage to leave his tree. Now he looks around. Alexis didn’t get anything at the Cornucopia, so there’s nothing he could take now.  
  
 _The Cornucopia._  
  
Bojan lifts his head as the idea passes through his head. The Careers left the Cornucopia. They are looking for water. So the Cornucopia has to be abandoned now. And for sure the Careers couldn’t take everything with them.  
  
The decision is hard to make. He should be looking for water, but the prospect of getting something from the Cornucopia is so tempting. He could get at least some food, or some warmer clothes.  
  
He decides that he can still go a while without water. Without any supplies he is dead anyway.  
  
*  
  
The Careers and their allies had a completely different night compared to the other tributes. They are wearing warmer jackets that they found at the Cornucopia, so they weren’t freezing. They also have enough food, sleeping bags and good weapons. As there is more of them, they can have one stay on the watch and get some sleep without worrying about not waking up again.  
  
Not wasting any time, they get going even before sunrise, and find a lake when most of the other tributes are not even up.  
  
Sergi looks like he wants to plunge right in it but Iturraspe stops him. Instead he tests the water carefully with his fingertips and Costa jabs a long branch in it a few times.  
  
“Looks safe,” he says then.  
  
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Pedro sighs and fills his bottle.  
  
Costa hesitates for a while before leaving his axe in the grass, but then realizes he couldn‘t splash the water in his face while still holding it.  
  
“Do you think this is the only source of water in the arena?” Pedro asks when they sit in the grass, drinking the water and having breakfast consisting of supplies from the Cornucopia.  
  
“It could be,” Gurpegui nods. “It would only make sense. Bringing us all here.”  
  
“Then the others will have to come here as well, won’t they?” Sergi says.  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“So shouldn’t we get out of here before they come?”  
  
Gurpegui looks at Iturraspe and they both smile.  
  
“No,” Iturraspe says. “We will wait for them here.”  
  
*  
  
Sergio is watching the big screen in the mentors’ lounge anxiously. The cameras are showing the tributes now but as nothing interesting is happening, most of the mentors are gone, looking for sponsors or chatting to each other. Sergio knows he should try to get some sponsors as well, but for that he needs some arguments. Bojan surviving the night hidden on a tree isn’t very convincing yet.  
  
“Sergio!” someone says in a friendly voice behind his back.  
  
Sergio turns around. David Villa is smiling at him. He looks laid back, relaxed. Well, with tributes like Koke and Costa, he doesn’t have to bite his nails in front of the TV 24/7.  
  
“Villa!” he smiles and shakes his hand. “How are you? How’s Silva?”  
  
“Much better,” Villa says. “He’s still afraid of water so I have to take baths with him but it’s nothing that would bother me that much.”  
  
Sergio laughs quietly. Villa sits beside him on the couch and looks at the screen.  
  
“He’s doing okay,” he notes.  
  
“If being alive means he is,” Sergio shrugs.  
  
 _Diego Alves has a blowgun swung over his shoulder and he sort of looks like he’s on a morning walk.  
  
Rubén Pardo is still going more or less in circles, apparently not knowing where he is. At one point he starts a conversation with a squirrel.  
  
Luka Modrić leaves his shelter that he found between some rocks. Then he starts looking for water same as the other tributes. He looks way more determined than he did the last night, like making it over the night gave him some hope.  
  
Ivan Rakitić is collecting berries and roots like it’s all that matters in the world._  
  
“I’ve heard someone even bet on Bojan,” Villa says quietly.  
  
“Really?” Sergio looks at him.  
  
“Yeah. I suspect it was Karanka. He always bets on someone random... sorry.”  
  
Sergio doesn’t even have enough mental strength to get offended.  
  
*  
  
It takes Bojan more time to reach the Cornucopia than it took him running away from it. Probably because then he had Costa behind his back.  
  
When he finally arrives to the place where everything started, there is someone sitting on the ground in front of the Cornucopia. Bojan wants to flee but the person doesn’t seem to even acknowledge his presence. He makes two more steps and then recognizes the person.  
  
“Gerard?” he asks.  
  
“There’s nothing,” Gerard says in a weak voice.  
  
“What?”  
  
“There’s nothing to take.”  
  
Bojan takes a look around and his eyes fall on the charred remains of what once were the supplies.  
  
“They burned them,” Gerard says. “Iturraspe’s idea, Pedro’s work.”  
  
Bojan sits on the ground next to Gerard. He was stupid to think that the Careers would just leave the things there for the others.  _They are no fucking charity, after all._ Suddenly Bojan understands the main difference between them and the other tributes. They are after winning, not surviving.  
  
But for the time being, surviving is still a pretty good goal.  
  
“We have to find water,” Bojan says and gets up.  
  
Gerard looks at him like Bojan is the eight world wonder.  
  
“We?”  
  
Bojan folds his arms.  
  
“Unless you want to sit here and wait until you die.”  
  
“Fine,” Gerard sighs.  
  
Bojan grabs his hand and helps him to get up. It’s not a proper alliance, but at least he’s not alone now.  
  
*  
  
It takes the other tributes too long to find the lake. Too long for Costa’s liking, anyways. Our of boredom he keeps jabbing Pedro’s spear in the water and finally pulls it out with a big fish impaled on it.  
  
“Discovering your secret talents, Costa?” Gurpegui laughs.  
  
“I’m a man of many talents,” Costa smirks. “Should I throw it back?”  
  
“Throwing food back, are you mad?” Pedro frowns.  
  
“Right, because you can clean a fish and cook it,” Costa says skeptically.  
  
“I can,” Sergi says.  
  
“Oh,” Costa raises his brows and hands the spear to Sergi. “Is that where you learned to use a knife?”  
  
Just when Sergi is cleaning the fish on a big flat stone, a figure appears about twenty meters from them, apparently not noticing them yet. Sergi grips the knife tighter.  
  
“Don’t let yourself be disturbed,” Iturraspe smirks. “It’s just Piti. We’ll deal with him.”  
  
*  
  
Around noon, the people watching the Games in the Capitol are mildly disappointed when they find out that the lake is not the only source of water in the arena. There are small pools here and there, and even a spring that seems to be hot, whatever it could be useful for.  
  
 _Ivan Rakitić settles down by a small pool. He uses a piece of cork from a tree as a sort of a plate and puts his nuts and berries on it in some imitation of a salad. When he’s ready to finally have his meal, something rustles in the bushes behind him. Grabbing the big branch that he is using as a weapon, he gets up and tiptoes towards the bushes._  
  
Once he is far away enough, Diego Alves sneaks out of the trees at the opposite side of the pool and approaches Rakitić’s food. He adds some berries to it and disappears behind the trees again like he was never there.  
  
Rakitić comes back after inspecting the bushes and finding nothing (except for the stone Diego Alves threw there to distract him, but there’s nothing strange about a stone in the bushes). He sighs with relief and throws a handful of his snack in his mouth.  
  
*  
  
Piti practically crawls to the lake, leaving his backpack in the grass. He extends his arms to the water when he feels someone’s heavy shoe on his back. He looks up and meets Carlos Gurpegui’s amused face.  
  
“Go on,” Gurpegui says. “Have your last drink.”  
  
“Don’t prolong it, Gurpe, I want to have lunch,” Pedro groans.  
  
“Alright, change of plans, you’ll go to hell thirsty,” Gurpegui shrugs and pulls out the dagger he has under his belt.  
  
In the meanwhile, Costa picks up the backpack laying on the ground, turns it upside down and inspects its contents.  
  
“Muesli bars?” he frowns. “Seriously?”  
  
“What did you expect, stuffed turkey?” Iturraspe rolls his eyes and tucks the bars in his pocket.  
  
“Can we have lunch yet?” Pedro asks.  
  
“Did you seriously come to the arena only to eat?” Costa snorts.  
  
“And I thought in Barcelona they weren’t as hungry as we were,” Gurpegui notes.  
  
*  
  
It’s Koke who finds the hot spring first. It doesn’t even bother him so much that the water is hot, he simply fills a provisory cup made of wood with it and leaves it in the shadow under the rocks to cool off. He notices that quite a lot of small animals are running around in this area. He decides to get himself some dinner.  
  
After a while he manages to trap some rabbit in his net. He bends over to collect it and in that moment, someone jumps on his back.  
  
Somehow he manages not to panic. If the person had a weapon, he would be already dead, and he trusts himself in a hand-to-hand combat. Still, whoever it is hanging on his back, he doesn’t seem to want to let go. They roll over the ground for a while, unable to pin the other down, both struggling to reach the spear laying in the grass. Who gets it first obviously wins.  
  
Suddenly a strange sound cuts through their ragged breathing and in the next moment, the weight of the other body lifts from Koke’s. He turns his head to see the other tribute, whom he now recognizes as Kiko Casilla from Espanyol, laying in the grass, with an arrow in his neck.  
  
His head snaps to the other side where Álvaro Morata is standing with a bow in his hands. Koke tries to scramble back, though there is practically not a chance Morata could miss him. He smashes himself over the head in his mind for not trying to flee earlier. But then Morata lowers the bow and swings it back over his shoulder.  
  
“What are you doing?” Koke asks bewildered. “You could have killed me.”  
  
“I could,” Morata nods. “But I don’t want to.”  
  
There is the unspoken ‘yet’ hanging in the air.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“There is a reason why the strong ones hunt in packs.”  
  
So that’s what it’s all about. Practical reasons above personal sympathies. Well, Koke doubts that someone in the arena has personal sympathies for someone else, maybe except of the Bilbao guys.  
  
“Allies?” he asks, stretching out his hand.  
  
Álvaro hesitates for a moment, but then nods and shakes Koke’s hand.  
  
*  
  
Bojan and Gerard find water when they already think they are going to die from dehydration. They don’t even purposely look for it anymore, they just suddenly hear something resembling a splash. It’s already dark, so dark that they more feel around for the surface.  
  
Just when they have their first drink and eat some nuts and roots that they managed to collect (Gerard is slightly better at recognizing edible plants than Bojan is), the anthem sounds loudly above their heads and the faces of the fallen tributes show up in the sky.  
  
Ivan Rakitić from Sevilla is the first, ruining their hopes of some of the Careers for example accidentally falling off some cliff. Kiko Casilla from Espanyol follows, then Piti from Granada and finally Alexis from Getafe, which is not a surprise for Bojan. There is still enough of opponents, too many for Bojan’s liking.  
  
As soon as the sky goes dark again, they have one last drink and then lay on the ground, both too tired to stay on the watch or taking any other precautions. They drift off to sleep as soon as they close their eyes, completely unaware of the fact that on the other side of the lake, the Careers have just finished the rests of the fish and set their camp for the night.


	5. Five

It’s Sergi on the watch when the sun rises, and thus he is the first one to spot the two people sleeping on the other side of the lake. Nevertheless, he rubs his eyes twice to be sure that he’s not having visions, because the thought that they spent the night so close to someone else is just too absurd.  
  
Then he carefully crawls over to his sleeping partners.  
  
“Itu?” he whispers and gently shakes Iturraspe.  
  
It’s only logical; trying to wake up Costa could prove to be the last thing he’d do in his life. Iturraspe opens his eyes and looks at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
Sergi points to the other side of the lake. Iturraspe raises his brows and then pokes Gurpegui’s shoulder. Pedro wakes up on his own with all the stir and squints in the direction the others are looking in. The last one to wake up is Costa who for a moment looks like he will kill them all for waking him up, but then decides to take his anger out on the other tributes.  
  
Quietly picking up their weapons, they retreat to the bushes around the lake. A few minutes later, Bojan and Gerard wake up.  
  
*  
  
Koke and Álvaro spent the night close to the place where they met. The night was suspiciously calm. In the morning, they prefer to move because there’s nothing to wait for.  
  
“I suppose Costa is with the Careers,” Koke says. “I mean Gurpegui and Iturraspe. And I think also Rodríguez is with them.”  
  
“Why aren’t you?” Álvaro asks. “They’d take you in.”  
  
“I’m an individualist.”  
  
“That’s why you formed an alliance with me, right?”  
  
Koke just grins.  
  
“You have a plan?” he asks then.  
  
“A plan for what?”  
  
“Surviving.”  
  
Álvaro stops for a moment and looks at him.  
  
“No,” he says and narrows his eyes. “I have a plan for winning.”  
  
“I’m one big ear,” Koke chuckles.  
  
“Well, if the Careers want to get us... what if we get them first?” Álvaro shrugs.  
  
“That’s a good plan, but how do you want to do that? If there’s really four of them now...”  
  
“I’ve been thinking... they have to sleep sometimes, don’t they? Then there would be just one of them on the watch. From a distance, it can’t be that hard to take them down.”  
  
“Sure, but you’d have to find them first. And get close to them without them spotting you,” Koke sighs. “This will need more planning. But I like the idea.”  
  
*  
  
Bojan and Gerard luckily have enough common sense to know that they can’t stay long by the lake because it’s clear that the others will come there sooner or later. They head back to the forest, pass through the sparse bushes, and it’s then when Costa’s axe flies through the air, missing Gerard’s head by inches and getting stuck in a tree.  
  
The idea of trying to retrieve it actually flies through Bojan’s mind, but the sight of Gurpegui with a sword and Pedro with his spear tells him that it would be a clear suicide. Instead, he decides to run.  
  
Costa is not willing to leave his axe in the tree, which gives Bojan a few seconds. Gurpegui decides to go after Gerard, and that leaves only Pedro. Bojan darts forwards, not giving a damn about where he is actually running, just away from the others is enough. He knows he can be quicker than Pedro if he really puts all into it.  
  
A few moments later, a sharp pain in his leg informs him that Pedro’s spear is much quicker than Pedro himself.  
  
*  
  
Sergio is sitting in front of the screen, biting his nails. He wishes he could have jumped through the screen into the arena and warn Bojan and Gerard before it was too late. Now Bojan is injured and Gerard still has Gurpegui, Iturraspe and Sergi after him.  
  
Bojan managed to run further, somehow ignoring the deep gash Pedro’s spear caused in his calf. In the deeper forest he managed to lose his opponents, mainly due to Costa’s laziness. If the prey runs too far, he’s not the type to track it. It’s pure luck that the other group is after Gerard, otherwise Sergio is sure it would be Bojan’s end. Iturraspe is meticulous enough to follow every single drop of blood until he finds the one who shed it.  
  
 _Bojan crawls towards some rocks that offer at least a partial hideout. He rolls up his pants and looks at his calf. He almost faints the next moment. The wound is bigger and deeper than it looked; it had to be the adrenaline that kept him going and suppressed the pain momentarily, but now it returns and he bites his lip to keep quiet and not bring the other tributes on him._  
  
Then the camera switches to another scene.  
  
 _Luka Modrić practically crawls out of the cave that has become his hideout. He has no ambitions to go and get some kills, he is only hoping for the other tributes to forget about his existence. Then maybe they will kill each other until one remains, and that one could, for example fall off a cliff or something.  
  
Problem is that not leaving his cave means also no food. He has no things he could use for hunting and the vegetation isn’t so rich around here. Scooping some of the morning dew on a big leaf, he has a drink and chews on some leaves._  
  
Sergio frowns as he doesn’t understand why the cameras focus on something so uninteresting as Modrić slowly becoming a koala. Then it suddenly hits him, when he focuses on the environment. Modrić is just on the other side of the rocks, completely unaware of Bojan’s presence only a few meters from him.  
  
*  
  
Halfway through the forest, Costa and Pedro give up their chase. They enter a clearing and stop, staring in awe at the ground. There is Rubén Pardo sitting in the middle of it, petting a rabbit and talking to it.  
  
“I’m starting to think that they should select the tributes rather than drawing them randomly,” Pedro says when Rubén doesn’t even notice them. “This is a shame of the Games.”  
  
“Clearly,” Costa nods and scowls at the sight of Rubén’s mad smile. “But at least it’s something. When we didn’t get the other, I will have some fun with this one.”  
  
He clutches the front of Rubén’s jacket and pulls him up. Pedro takes the rabbit from him.  
  
“I’ll just take this so that it doesn’t go to waste,” he says. “You won’t need it anymore.”  
  
Costa grins and props Rubén against the nearest tree while Pedro breaks the rabbit’s neck to ensure it doesn’t run away. This at least seems to register in Rubén’s brain as he looks at Pedro accusingly.  
  
“Oh, don’t be sad,” Costa smirks. “You’ll follow your furry friend soon. Well, maybe not as soon as you’d wish.”  
  
He pulls out a knife and for a moment wonders how to coordinate his axe and the knife. In that very moment, Rubén slides down the trunk and remains laying motionless on the ground. Costa looks at Pedro like he wants to make sure he’s not the only one seeing it.  
  
“What...” he blurts out.  
  
Alright, Rubén could be mad, but he’s too young for a heart attack, and as far as Costa knows, this is not what a heart attack looks like.  
  
Pedro is the first to spot it. He carefully pulls a small dart out of Rubén’s neck and shows it to Costa. Costa grits his teeth.  
  
“Alves.”  
  
He looks around in fury, and also maybe slightly worried that another poison dart will fly from somewhere.  
  
“Alves, show yourself, you bastard!” he roars.  
  
But the forest remains quiet, only leaves rustling in the breeze. Diego Alves clearly isn’t up for a face-to-face meeting.  
  
*  
  
Sergio practically doesn’t leave his spot in front of the screen, even though he knows that he should try to do something to help Bojan. There’s only one thing he could do, find some sponsors who would pay for a medicine, maybe some bandages at least. Without them, the wound won’t let him move around much, and if it gets infected, it might as well kill him before any other tribute does.  
  
He almost doesn’t notice when Raúl González, one of the most influential people in the Capitol, sits next to him.  
  
“Sergio!” he smiles. “Long time no see.”  
  
Sergio nods curtly.  
  
“Mr. González.”  
  
Out of all the people, Raúl is probably the one he likes to see the least. Every year during the annual tour in the Capitol, he has been trying to get Sergio in his bed. Unsuccessfully. The former winners are quite desired and some of them use it to their advantage. But as the only thing Sergio wants is to live peacefully, he doesn’t need any affairs with the rich.  
  
“This is very unfortunate,” Raúl says, pointing to the screen where Bojan is still trying hard not to faint. “Without a medicine he won’t last long.”  
  
“But he doesn’t have any sponsors,” Sergio says.  
  
“Indeed. And the medicine must be very expensive. Not everyone could afford it.”  
  
Raúl looks at Sergio and smiles.  
  
“I could, though,” he says calmly.  
  
Sergio looks at him hopefully.  
  
“You would...”  
  
“Well, Sergio, nothing in these Games is free,” Raúl sighs and his hand lands on Sergio’s knee. “But if I got what I’ve always wanted, I would be willing to spend some money on your... friend.”  
  
Sergio blinks and looks at him like he can’t believe Raúl actually said it. He wants to kill him in that moment and only the thought that it wouldn’t help Bojan at all if he went to jail now stops him from it.  
  
“Think about it,” Raúl smiles and gets up. “But don’t wait too long. For his sake.”  
  
*  
  
The Careers return to the lake in the evening. Some of them, mainly Costa and Pedro, in a very bad mood. They also didn’t have time to hunt any animals to get a decent dinner, so the only thing they have is the rabbit. It’s so tiny that it’s only enough for one person, and Pedro takes it for himself. The supplies from the Cornucopia are running low and they need to keep some for later.  
  
Costa hungrily looks at Iturraspe who takes out one of the muesli bars they found in Piti’s backpack.  
  
“Hands off my muesli bars!” Iturraspe snaps. “You wanted to throw them away so now don’t touch them!”  
  
He turns to Sergi and smirks.  
  
“You didn’t say anything, so you can have a bite.”  
  
Sergi giggles and takes a bite of the bar.  
  
“Who has the first watch?” Costa asks.  
  
“Not Gurpe,” Iturraspe says. “Last time he was on the watch he snored so loudly that he probably woke up the whole arena.”  
  
“It was Gurpe?” Pedro asks. “I thought some wild animal was attacking us.”  
  
Gurpegui shows them the middle finger and unfolds his sleeping bag. Iturraspe taps Sergi on the shoulder.  
  
“It’s up to you, man. I’ll take the next.”  
  
“Fine, then wake me up,” Costa says. “Pedro can be after me and we’ll leave the rest to Gurpe. Maybe he’ll get enough sleep by then.”  
  
*  
  
Bojan is sitting under an overhanging rock, unable to stop shaking. He sacrificed his T-shirt to bandage his leg but he’s not sure that the wound stopped bleeding. He doesn’t have the courage to take a closer look at it. It just hurts like hell and he’s shivering and feels cold. He figures they are symptoms of blood loss, but all he can do is not to move too much.  
  
The anthem sounds and Bojan sticks his head out to see the sky. Rubén Pardo’s face appears and Bojan sighs. In the state Rubén was, it’s actually a wonder that he lasted that long.  _And actually it’s better for him_ , Bojan thinks. Then he scolds himself for it.  _How could it be better for anyone to be dead?_  
  
Then another face appears in the sky and Bojan presses his hand to his mouth to keep himself from screaming.  
  
He is looking at Gerard’s face.  
  
*  
  
Koke and Álvaro have been hiding behind the trees close to the Careers’ camp since the early evening. They wait throughout Sergi’s watch. They’ve decided to take out the one on the watch first, and as they consider Sergi the smallest threat in the pack, they want to make sure the one they get for sure will be someone stronger.  
  
Sergi wakes up Iturraspe and snuggles up in his sleeping bag between Pedro and Gurpegui. After five minutes, Koke taps Álvaro on the shoulder and Álvaro nods.  
  
It’s almost completely dark, there’s just some light from the moon, just enough to make out shapes of things. Álvaro pulls out an arrow and positions it carefully. He aims at Iturraspe and releases the arrow.  
  
And misses.  
  
Whet follows is a complete chaos. Iturraspe practically rolls over his partners to wake them up. The moment Costa and Gurpegui jump up, Álvaro sends another arrow in their direction, but misses again. Then he realizes that he’s only wasting the arrows because in the darkness he’s not likely to aim well enough to kill them. And also, they now seem to know where the arrows came from. Five against two. He doesn’t even have to look at Koke to know what to do. Run.  
  
Only that Koke doesn’t run, not immediately. He waits for the Careers to make a few steps in his direction. Then he throws his spear at Gurpegui who is leading the group currently. The moment the spear leaves his hand, Gurpegui turns around to call at Iturraspe and the spear flies past him, ending up in Sergi’s body instead.  
  
Koke and Álvaro don’t wait for anything, sprinting away between the trees. The others hesitate. They are not sure who attacked them and how many of them were there. Gurpegui then changes the direction slightly, opting for running away than chasing the opponents. The others follow him, still taken aback.  
  
“Pedro!” Sergi calls when they are about to enter the forest.  
  
Pedro squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, but doesn’t turn around and keeps going.  
  
“Itu!” Sergi tries when he realizes that his district partner has given up on him.  
  
Iturraspe stops and then turns around. Gurpegui pulls on his sleeve.  
  
“Are you mad? We have to go! Can’t carry him on our backs!”  
  
Iturraspe shakes his hand off him.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” he says.  
  
Gurpegui shakes his head and looks at Costa who rolls his eyes. Even Pedro stops and turns around to see what’s happening.  
  
Iturraspe kneels down next to Sergi and looks at him. He knows immediately that it‘s nothing he could deal with using the first-aid kit. Sergi tries to get up but can‘t even prop himself up on his elbows. He falls back exhaustedly and looks up at Iturraspe.  
  
“Don’t leave me here,” he whispers. “Don’t leave me here to die.”  
  
“I won’t,” Iturraspe says. “It will be alright.”  
  
“It hurts so much...” Sergi breathes out. “I can’t...”  
  
“Close your eyes, it will be fine.”  
  
Sergi closes his eyes and tears slip from underneath his eyelids, rolling down his temples.  
  
“I just want to go home,” he whispers.  
  
Putting one hand on Sergi’s forehead like he wants to caress his hair, Iturraspe tilts his head back slightly.  
  
“That’s it. Close your eyes and think of it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Home.”  
  
Then he pulls out a knife and cuts Sergi‘s throat with a quick, practiced motion.  
  
It‘s all so quick and quiet that the others don‘t fully understand what happened until he rejoins them.  
  
“What was that?” Gurpegui asks, bewildered.  
  
“You didn’t tell us you had a heart, Iturraspe,” Costa smirks.  
  
Iturraspe gives him a look that almost unsettles him.  
  
“Let’s stay human, shall we?” he says.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The gifts from sponsors are sent to the arena from the Capitol using small parachutes, probably programmed somehow to reach exactly the tribute they are for.  
> \- The three fingers salute mentioned at the end is, in the books and in the movies, a farewell salute that shows respect to the person - "It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love."

The first sun rays wake Bojan up but he doesn‘t even try to move. It‘s not like he‘s going anywhere. He‘s already tried to stand on his leg at night. The pain was so big that he howled loudly and could only hope the other tributes, if any of them heard him, took the howl for some animal‘s. It didn‘t sound exactly human anyway.  
  
He wonders if he will wait for long until he dies, and whether it will be blood poisoning, blood loss or another tribute that will kill him. He sort of hopes for another tribute, but then, if it should be Costa, maybe blood loss would be a better option.  
  
He knows that the cameras are probably focusing on him but he couldn‘t care less. It‘s not like he has any sponsors he could play strong for. There‘s just Sergio somewhere in the Capitol, and Sergio wouldn‘t buy in it anyway. He just hopes that his death won‘t look too ugly, or that Sergio‘s screen will just stop functioning before he dies. He really doesn‘t want Sergio to remember him that way.  
  
And to top all his misery, it starts raining.  
  
*  
  
In the Capitol, Sergio switches off the TV resolutely and walks out of the headquarters.  
  
*  
  
Koke throws his waterproof sleeping bag over him and looks at Álvaro who wraps himself in a plastic raincoat, without a doubt a gift from a sponsor.  
  
“So... change of plans?” he asks.  
  
“Any that I know of,” Álvaro says. “Maybe it didn’t go the way we planned last night, but there’s still one less.”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t plan to get that boy at all,” Koke says.  
  
“Does it matter?” Álvaro shrugs. “There’s no difference. We just need to get the others now.”  
  
“That will be a problem,” Koke frowns. “First I’d need a weapon.”  
  
He doesn’t even get to finish the sentence when a silver parachute floats down from the sky and lands in front of him. He makes a grab for it like it could disappear again, and inspects the spear attached to it. Then he lifts his face to where he suspects the cameras are.  
  
“Thank you, Sara!” he says.  
  
*  
  
Raúl González lives in one of the most prestigious quarters in the Capitol. Sergio is grateful for it because it means that there aren‘t many people on the streets. He takes a deep breath, rings the bell and turns his face to the screen next to it. The gate buzzes and lets him enter.  
  
Raúl‘s kids are having breakfast in the kitchen and are arguing over their playing cards with former tributes. There is also the TV on, but Sara Carbonero interviewing Diego Costa‘s grandfather doesn‘t interest anybody. Even though an eighty-years old man explaining the best ways to use an axe is not exactly a usual thing to see.  
  
“You have Cristiano twice!” a boy at the table says and bangs a spoon in the bowl of cereals so that they fly all over the kitchen. “Why can’t you exchange him with me?”  
  
“Because you’re just giving me Benzema who got eaten by squirrels like the biggest idiot in the world!” his brother snaps.  
  
“Boys, I told you to speak of the tributes with respect!” Raúl says in an authoritative voice.  
  
“It was you who said that about Benzema, dad!” his daughter points out.  
  
“Oh well,” Raúl says, a bit embarrassed. “But you don’t have to repeat everything that I say.”  
  
“And you promised us the new cards!” the boy with Benzema card pouts and folds his arms.  
  
“Fine,” Raúl says and takes out his purse. “So now you will go buy the new cards and you can stop by you grandmother’s.”  
  
The kids jump up, grab the money he hands them and run out of the house.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Raúl sighs. “They are crazy about the games. Last year they wouldn’t leave me alone until I took them to visit the old arena. Well, let’s go upstairs, shall we?”  
  
*  
  
Diego Costa is in a bad mood. Not only because someone, and he doesn’t even know who, dared to attack them at night, which he considers the biggest cowardice and insolence, but mainly because he’s hungry. And now that it started to rain, all the animals are hiding somewhere, which excludes hunting, and he ate all the rests of his supplies in his backpack during the night walk when they were looking for a new hideout.  
  
At least Pedro and Gurpegui are in the same situation. Iturraspe is munching on his last muesli bar.  
  
“How long can this last?” Pedro asks. “The Gamemakers should try to bring us together to fight, not to make us hide somewhere and starve to death.”  
  
“After one night you won’t starve to death,” Gurpegui says calmly. “And after last night I will gladly have a few hours without fighting.”  
  
“Who could it be last night?” Costa asks. “So that I know who I will kill as painfully as possible.”  
  
“Morata,” Iturraspe says matter-of-factly.  
  
Costa gives him a confused look.  
  
“Morata?” he repeats. “How can you be so sure about it?”  
  
“One bow at the Cornucopia. Morata was the one who got it. Unless someone stole it from him...”  
  
“What about the spear?” Pedro asks. “He wasn’t alone, he wouldn’t do that alone.”  
  
“That could have been anyone,” Gurpegui nods. “At least now we know Morata has an ally.”  
  
“Fuck, would it stop raining?” Costa growls.  
  
Just as he says it, the rain stops.  
  
“Seems like you have some powers we know nothing about,” Pedro says and gets up. “Let’s go find some food. Or tributes. Preferably both.”  
  
*  
  
Sergio gathers his clothes and pulls his shirt over his head. Raúl smiles and reaches for the tablet laying on the nightstand.  
  
“I’ll transfer the money so that they can prepare whatever your tribute needs,” he says and starts typing on the screen.  
  
Sergio nods and ties his shoes. He feels just numb. Maybe later it will all down at him, but right now the only thing he can think of is Raúl’s money currently transferring to Bojan’s account. He will be able to send him the medicaments when he gets back to the headquarters.  
  
Raúl finishes the transfer and smiles.  
  
“Well, whatever you need, Sergio, you can just ask me. I will be happy to help.”  
  
Sergio just closes his eyes for a moment, nods and practically runs out of the house.  
  
He passes a place where it’s possible to bet on the tributes. A few teenage girls are hanging around, discussing the odds. One of them has apparently just bet all her money on Iturraspe and waves the ticket at her friends. Another one reaches for her purse.  
  
“Alright, goodbye lunches for this month!” she says and throws the money on the counter. “Diego Alves.”  
  
Her friends burst in a surprised laughter. She frowns at them.  
  
“When he wins, you’ll kiss the ground I stepped on!”  
  
“Whatever, I will at least have something to eat this month,” another girl laughs.  
  
“Says the one who cried all night yesterday when Sergi died!” her friend frowns.  
  
“I cried because it was sad, not because I had my bet on him. You know I have my bet on Morata so shut up.”  
  
Sergio has to stop and take a deep breath. He feels sick, sick of the whole Capitol, sick of these girls who are talking about the Games like it was really a funny game, and the tributes just pieces in it. He feels like a piece of it now too. He’s already playing by the rules.  
  
*  
  
Álvaro and Koke get going as soon as the rain stops. They don‘t follow any traces because even if there were any, the rain got rid of them. They are just hoping to accidentally find the Careers‘ new hideout.  
  
“Koke?” Álvaro asks when the silence between them gets too awkward.  
  
“What?” Koke asks.  
  
“I saw... at the reaping...” Álvaro says. “The guy next to you...”  
  
“What about him?”  
  
“Just... he didn’t want to let go of you. I was wondering who...”  
  
“It’s not what you think,” Koke snaps.  
  
“I don’t think anything,” Álvaro assures him.  
  
“It was Javier. And I practically feed him. Him and two other boys, Saúl and Óliver.“  
  
“You have your personal kindergarten,” Álvaro smiles.  
  
Koke chuckles as well, though somehow bitterly.  
  
“That kindergarten is going to starve if I don‘t come back,“ he says.  
  
Álvaro nods thoughtfully. Then all of a sudden he reaches for an arrow, lines it up and shoots before Koke can even blink. When he turns around, Joao Pereira is already lying in the mud, the knife he had been holding now resting in his open palm.  
  
“One step closer to coming back,” Álvaro says.  
  
*  
  
When the parachute floats down the sky right in his lap, the first thing that comes to Bojan’s mind is that they programmed it badly in the Capitol and it doesn’t really belong to him. It can’t. He has no sponsors.  
  
Then he finds the courage to actually free the thing it’s carrying and inspect it. It’s a small bag that looks a bit like a black vanity bag, there’s nothing special about it. Bojan opens it and gasps.  
  
It’s full of medical supplies. Bandages, plasters, some ointment, a disinfection spray and even a small bottle of painkillers.  
  
“Sergio!” Bojan breathes out.  
  
Then he gathers all his courage and unties the makeshift bandage. He almost passes out. Blood isn’t really a thing he likes to see. He grits his teeth and takes deep breaths. Then he sprays some of the disinfection spray on the wound and cleans it as much as possible with a piece of gauze. He figures that the ointment is supposed to heal the wound, so he applies some on it. Then he wraps the bandage around it.  
  
The relief is almost immediate. The pain is still there but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out anymore. He swallows one pill from the bottle and carefully puts all the rest of the supplies back for later.  
  
In about half an hour the pain subsides enough for him to try to stand up. He still feels weak from the blood loss and probably from hunger, but he can at least walk. He drinks some of the rain water that gathered on the big leaves and looks around carefully. He has no idea of where he should go. Probably find a better shelter, and also some food before it gets dark.  
  
*  
  
The Careers continue deeper to the forest, now at the other side of the lake. The forest is all the same everywhere, except for some clearings where they would serve themselves to the other tributes like on a silver plate.  
  
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Costa asks. “As for me, I can sleep in the first cave we find, I’m not picky. And if there’s a bear in it, even better, we’ll have dinner.”  
  
“Then at night Morata will have an easy work shooting us,” Iturraspe smirks. “Unless the cave will have a back door or something.”  
  
“But if they start playing with the weather controls again, I don’t want to sleep in the rain,” Pedro says. “Let’s find some overhanging rock or something. But quickly, it will get dark soon.”  
  
“Let’s go in different directions for five minutes each and then come back,” Gurpegui suggests.  
  
The others nod and after Costa threatens to kill Pedro if he goes west because he wants to go west, they part ways.  
  
*  
  
Tomás Pina never thought he would make it further than half of the tributes. Leave alone without a weapon, just with a rope and extra socks, and food that lasted him for a day. But he’s from Villarreal. The rest of La Liga tend to underestimate his district and some of them pay for it.  
  
He managed to make more rope out of some grass and then make a net out of it. He spent the first two days just working on it, but it paid off. He was able to trap small animals in the net and those provided him with enough food once he found a sharp piece of rock to clean and portion them.  
  
He is just getting ready to get some dinner when he hears a sound too loud for an animal, or at least a small animal. He looks over his shoulder but there’s just a steep hillside. It must be coming from another direction.  
  
He turns back and almost bumps into Ander Iturraspe with a sword in his hand.  
  
Tomás jumps back and swings the net in a desperate attempt to defend himself. The net is wet and heavy and once it hits the blade and gets it tangled, the sword falls out of Iturraspe’s hand. They look at each other for a moment, both a bit shocked.  
  
Iturraspe collects himself more quickly and launches himself at Tomás. Tomás steps back and pushes his opponent away, in a quite childish way that doesn’t resemble a real combat at all. But the ground is still wet and soft after the rain and it slips under Iturraspe’s feet. Tomás freezes and just watches him roll down the steep hillside and then remain laying motionless at the bottom.  
  
Tomás looks at his hands like he can’t believe they really belong to him. He hesitates for a while. Then he looks at the sword laying in the grass but judges it too heavy to carry around, mainly when he doesn’t know how to use it properly. But his eyes fall at the backpack Iturraspe has and he bites his lip. Whatever is in it, it can be useful and it would be a waste to let it be taken out of the arena. He gathers all his courage and starts carefully running down the hillside.  
  
He almost tiptoes the last few meters, feeling his heart somewhere in his throat. His mind is racing. He is a well-brought-up boy. Stealing things is bad. Stealing things from the dead is even worse. But in the arena, the moral codex is a lot different.  
  
He kneels on the ground and reaches for one of the straps.  
  
In that moment, Iturraspe’s eyes snap open.  
  
Tomás doesn’t even manage to yelp. In a blink Iturraspe flips them over and closes his hands around his throat.  
  
“Never come close to a sleeping lion,” he growls. “It could suddenly wake up.”  
  
Tomás’ fingers dig and scratch at Iturraspe’s forearms but the grip doesn’t loosen a single bit. Through the corners of his blackening vision he can see Gurpegui and Costa appear on the edge above them and realizes that there is no way out now. It isn’t the right moment and the right place to go, but he knows that he won’t have the right to choose. He lets his fingers slide down the nylon sleeves of Iturraspe’s jacket and finally gives up.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck, I almost believed you were dead!” Gurpegui says once Iturraspe walks up the hill, and hands him back the sword. “Do you still need this? Didn’t look like you cared too much for weapons.”  
  
“Did you take acting lessons from Neymar, Iturraspe?” Costa asks.  
  
Iturraspe ignores him.  
  
“Did you find anything?” he asks, picking up the net as well.  
  
“There’s a good place behind those rocks,” Pedro says. “Not much, but will do for tonight. I hope there are no more minions hiding in there.”  
  
*  
  
Diego Alves unrolls his sleeping bag that he took from Rakitić and settles for the night. He spent the day spying on the Careers and now he can stay in a safe distance.  
  
The anthem sounds from the sky and he looks up without big interest.  
  
Sergi Roberto’s face appears first. That’s not a big surprise for Diego since he hasn’t seen him with the Careers since morning and pretty much figured out the reason.  
  
Then Tomás Pina’s picture, not a surprise either, considering he followed the Careers.  
  
And finally, Joao. Diego sighs quietly.  
  
“At least you’re home now,” he whispers.  
  
Then he presses three of his middle fingers against his lips and holds them out to the sky.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "feast" is a special even in the Games, organized by the Gamemakers mainly when there are little to no kills. The time and place of the feast are announced and the tributes can go there to get whatever is offered. Usually it's food, but it can be other things. The true purpose of the feast, however, is to bring the tributes together and make them fight each other.

The morning finds the tributes all alive and with a certain hyperbole, even in a good mood. Well, maybe except of Luka Modrić, who in a desperate attempt to have a breakfast consisting of something else than leaves tries to chew the twigs instead, but realizes that it’s impossible. He returns to the leaves then.  
  
Diego Costa can finally have a good breakfast because with the help of Tomás Pina’s net, they managed to catch some big bird and roasted it with some herbs and roots. It’s even quite tasty, although none of them have Sergi’s cooking skills.  
  
Diego Alves cooks some eggs he found in a nest on the tree he spent the night on and then has them with a piece of bread that some sponsors sent him last night.  
  
Bojan exchanges his bandage and swallows another painkiller. He finds some berries, roots and nuts. He eats the berries and keeps the nuts and roots for later.  
  
Álvaro and Koke are roasting two squirrels over the fire. Koke feels pretty insignificant when he realizes that Álvaro is doing all the killings of other tributes while the only thing Koke contributes to their alliance is food, but Álvaro assures him that it’s a more than important contribution.  
  
“You know when we talked about... your kindergarten?” Álvaro asks while they’re waiting for the meat to cool down.  
  
Koke smiles and nods. Álvaro looks at him with a serious expression.  
  
“If, for some reason, you don’t make it and I do... I promise I won’t let them starve.”  
  
“You’re serious?” Koke asks quietly.  
  
“Yeah. I promise you that.”  
  
Koke blinks and bites on his lip.  
  
“Thank you,” he says then.  
  
Álvaro just nods and reaches for one of the squirrels to break the awkward silence.  
  
*  
  
Sometime around noon, Bojan comes to the conclusion that if he actually has sponsors, he should show at least a bit of fighting spirit to keep them. He can’t be sure how soon he will need them again.  
  
He moves from his hideout and heads to a different part of the arena. Maybe he could get some more food there. Or a better, safer place to spend the night on. He just needs to look like he has a plan, even though he has of course none. He’s made it so far by pure luck and because he was hiding. He suspects that the Gamemakers won’t let him hide for much longer. There aren’t that many tributes anymore. If everyone just hid somewhere, the spectators could be stuck with the same images for a month. And they want a show, mainly a show that involves blood.  
  
An hour later, he comes across a fireplace. The fire is out but the ashes are still really hot and some of the embers glowing red. The person – or persons - must have left barely an hour ago. Bojan looks around and then judges it safe to stay there for a while. He uses the embers to roast his roots and nuts, checks his wound that now looks a lot better, and looks for a place to spend the night on. There are trees around, but none of them looks like a solid hideout. Also it doesn’t seem that there’s water around. With certain regret he gets up again and continues deeper in the forest.  
  
*  
  
Sergio sits in front of the screens, keeping an eye on Bojan, who apparently found Álvaro’s and Koke’s old fireplace, while trying to watch the other mentors in the room as well. Iker and Cristiano are discussing something, and from their faces Sergio would guess Cristiano is making fun of Modrić. David Villa is arguing with Sara Carbonero who apparently wants to spend the sponsors’ money on some better weapon for Costa and Villa is trying to explain to her that he is doing just fine with the one he has. Carles Puyol apparently has troubles getting sponsors for Pedro because Pedro isn’t showing much personality lately, except for eating copious amounts of food whenever he gets to it. And Fernando Llorente is probably not worried about his tributes at all because he’s having a nap on one of the couches.  
  
Suddenly the room stirs and Sergio can hear excited whispering. The screens are showing Costa sharpening his axe, so there has to be a different reason for it. Sergio looks around and tenses. Through the glass of one of the corridors above their heads he can see his biggest enemy, President Florentino Pérez, walking down the narrow corridor and then storming inside the Main Control Room.  
  
Everyone in the room looks at each other, including Llorente, who woke up just in time to catch a glimpse of Florentino closing the door behind him.  
  
“Well, I’d say things are going to get more interesting soon,” he smiles.  
  
“And you are happy about it?” Iker frowns.  
  
“Look,” Llorente says resolutely. “I’m a realist. I just want to get one of my tributes home. I don’t care which one, but I want it to be as soon as possible. And if whatever Florentino and his people do can help it to be over sooner, I’m all for it.”  
  
A few moments later, it starts raining in the arena. Llorente rolls his eyes.  
  
“But they really lack creativity.”  
  
*  
  
It’s mostly Diego Alves who makes profit from the rain. Not only it will cover his tracks, but the rain is loud enough for him to move around unnoticed. He had to let the Careers go for some time because they would inevitably spot him if he followed them immediately. Now he can catch up with them. The visibility isn’t perfect but the Careers are loud enough for him to hear them several meters away.  
  
When he has them within the sight and has to be really careful, he realizes that he’s not the only one tracking them. Koke and Álvaro emerge from the woods and he only has enough time to hide behind a tree.  
  
In the meanwhile, the Careers set a camp and Iturraspe and Costa go to lay some traps, supposing that when it stops raining, the animals will come out and fall in the traps. It’s clearly what Koke and Álvaro were waiting for, because Álvaro nudges Koke and they start approaching the place where Pedro and Gurpegui are tucking their supplies under some rocks to keep them relatively dry.  
  
 _In the Capitol, the mentors, escorts and stylists approach the screens, watching the scene with interest. Cristiano even stops filing his nails and Sara Carbonero puts down her mirror._  
  
Diego Alves waits for Álvaro and Koke to be far away from him and then climbs a tree. He gives a contented smile.  
  
“Come on, boys,” he mumbles.  
  
Pedro spots them first, and has enough time to warn Gurpegui. Koke readies his spear while Gurpegui apparently had to jump behind the nearest tree to avoid Álvaro’s arrow. Pedro throws a knife at Koke but it’s not his strongest point so Koke manages to block it with his hand. The blade slashes his palm open but then falls to the ground and he snatches it quickly. Free weapons are always welcome.  
  
At that moment Costa and Iturraspe emerge from behind the rocks and it’s where the attack ends and the running begins. Álvaro turns around and shoots, more to distract the Careers and give him and Koke more time for running away. He’s more lucky than accurate this time. The arrow flies through Gurpegui’s thigh.  
  
Álvaro can hear his curses even when he can no more see him.  
  
*  
  
Costa is literally fuming, Pedro is somewhat embarrassed and Gurpegui is swearing while being taken care of by Iturraspe.  
  
“Little fucker!” he curses and groans when he looks at the arrow piercing his muscle.  
  
“Hold still!” Iturraspe snaps.  
  
“Still?” Gurpegui spits. “Have you ever had a fucking arrow in your leg?”  
  
Costa chuckles and leans over a tree.  
  
“For sure you’re not going to die, you look too much alive for that,” he notes.  
  
“Too bad that little fucker is still alive as well,” Gurpegui mumbles.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll snap his neck sooner or later.”  
  
“Could you both shut up for a moment?” Iturraspe asks. “I’m not really good at this and you two bickering all the time don’t help.”  
  
Costa just snorts and goes to check how much of the roasted bird is still remaining. Iturraspe looks up at Gurpegui and sighs.  
  
“I’ll have to break the arrow,” he says.  
  
“WHAT?”  
  
“Unless you want me to pull it out together with a piece of Gurpe steak.”  
  
“Fuck you!” Gurpegui snaps.  
  
“You can fuck me, but I have to do it anyways.”  
  
Gurpegui sighs resignedly.  
  
“If I at least had something to get drunk with...”  
  
“I wouldn’t say no to something like that either,” Costa smirks. “But me and Pedro will have to do.”  
  
He winks at Pedro and they both practically jump on Gurpegui, holding him down. Iturraspe doesn’t wait for anything and breaks off the tip of the arrow. Gurpegui unleashes a stream of Basque expletives. Iturraspe hopes that it’s already too late for little kids to be watching now. Basque kids, at least.  
  
*  
  
“Are you alright?” Álvaro asks when they finally judge it safe to stop.  
  
“Yeah, it’s just my hand,” Koke says. “It’s not even bleeding that much, it just hurts.”  
  
“Wait here.”  
  
He comes back with a handful of some herbs. He puts them on a piece of cloth that looks like the fabric the parachutes are made of and mashes them with the handle of his knife until the juices soak into the cloth. Then he wraps it up in a sort of a provisory bandage.  
  
Koke withdraws his hand.  
  
“I’m not trying to poison you,” Álvaro says. “Trust me.”  
  
Koke still looks at him cautiously for a moment.  
  
“Fine,” he says then and extends his arm.  
  
Álvaro wraps the cloth around his hand and ties it. The light is disappearing, so it’s the right moment to make a fire without being spotted. They eat the rests of the squirrels in silence.  
  
“We could stay here for the night,” Álvaro says then. “If one of us stays awake...”  
  
“I’ll take the first watch,” Koke says. “It still hurts a bit, I probably couldn’t sleep anyway.”  
  
“If it hurts too much, chew on this,” Álvaro says and hands him something that looks like a piece of wood.  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Willow bark. It helps. But when your ears start ringing, you have to stop.”  
  
“How come you are so good at this?”  
  
“It’s what I do. I mean, home.”  
  
“Oh,” Koke says and adjusts the twigs in the fireplace.  
  
“What do you do?” Álvaro asks. “I mean, you are able to feed three other people. You must have a good job.”  
  
Koke chuckles.  
  
“Depends on what you mean by a good job. I work in a quarry.”  
  
“That explains why you can throw heavy things like they don’t weigh anything,” Álvaro smiles.  
  
“Yeah, now I can,” Koke nods and then laughs. “The first few days, though, I couldn’t even get up at night to have a drink. I had to throw my pillow at Óliver to wake him up.”  
  
Álvaro smiles. Then the anthem sounds and the badges of all districts appear in the sky, but then disappear again. There were no deaths.  
  
*  
  
Florentino Pérez walks in the Control Room again and looks at José Mourinho, the Head Gamemaker.  
  
“Have you come up with a plan to lure out the worms?” he asks. “There were no kills today, I’m not paying you for this!”  
  
“I have,” Mourinho beams proudly. “We’ll organize a feast.”  
  
“Who do you think you can lure out on food, except Modrić?” Florentino frowns.  
  
“Not food,” Mourinho smirks. “There will be better stuff. Something they won’t say no to.”  
  
“Well, I hope it will work better than your rain experiments,” Florentino says menacingly.  
  
José just smirks.  
  
“Get my microphone ready!” he snaps at one of his employees.  
  
*  
  
Iturraspe waits for Costa and Pedro to go check the traps. When they are out of sight, he looks at Gurpegui.  
  
“Alright, try to stand up!” he says then and throws Gurpegui’s arm around his shoulders.  
  
Gurpegui stands up, but the moment he tries to put weight on the injured leg, it gives up. He grabs on Iturraspe for support with his other hand.  
  
“No,” he shakes his head.  
  
“Fine,” Iturraspe says and helps him sit again. “Not a word to the two of them.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Fuck, don’t you remember that kid? Costa and Pedro will leave you here for the squirrels! If squirrels eat people, I don’t know.”  
  
“What do you want to do? Slit my throat the way you did it to that kid?”  
  
“You’re not dying. There has to be a solution.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Sponsors?”  
  
Gurpegui chuckles.  
  
“We both know that out of us two, you are the one more likely to get sponsors. Unfortunately I lack your charisma and good looks.”  
  
“Shut up!” Iturraspe laughs.  
  
“It’s alright, I give you that. Just you’ll never give me that I’m better at using the sword.”  
  
“Because you’re not and shut up!” Iturraspe says. “We’ll wait until the morning. Maybe it will get better.”  
  
“Yeah,” Gurpegui says, but doesn’t sound too convinced.  
  
Just when Costa and Pedro come back with some strange animal that looks like a weasel, the anthem sounds again.  
  
“Attention, tributes!” a slightly distorted, but still recognizable Mourinho’s voice sounds from all directions. “We will be holding a feast tomorrow at noon at the Cornucopia. Each of you needs something and you will be able to find it in a backpack with your name. Think well about not going there.”  
  
*  
  
Not only Mourinho has the attention of the tributes, he has the attention of everyone in the Capitol as well.  
  
When his voice goes silent, the cameras focus on the tributes curiously, recording every reaction.  
  
 _Diego Alves wrinkles his nose, leaving his decision a mystery. On the other side, Luka Modrić’s face lights up at the prospect of getting food that hopefully won’t be green. Bojan bites his lip, torn between the fear of meeting other tributes inevitably, and getting something he needs, which he guesses is probably a weapon. Costa and Pedro look like they don’t even have to think about it, it’s an opportunity to fight the others and whatever will be in their backpacks doesn’t really interest them. Gurpegui scratches his head and looks at Iturraspe.  
  
“Well, at least I know what will be in my backpack,” he says and points to his leg. “Isn’t this the solution you were talking about?”  
  
“I can totally see you running for it,” Iturraspe rolls his eyes.  
  
“What other choice do I have?”  
  
“I can go there and take both.”  
  
“It’s only a plan to make us fight again!” Gurpegui objects. “To bring the tributes together. Some of them maybe don’t need anything, they’ll go there just to get rid of others!”  
  
“Like us two!” Costa grins and throws an arm around Pedro’s shoulder. “But don’t worry, we will leave Iturraspe alone.”  
  
He pets Iturraspe’s hair and smirks.  
  
“He doesn’t even eat that much. I’d rather kill Pedro to have more food.”  
  
Pedro tries to stomp on his foot which results in a rather funny dance.  
  
“Whatever, you need the medicine,” Iturraspe says resolutely.  
  
“I need you more than that.”  
  
“You need me with the medicine, and that’s what you’re gonna get.”_  
  
In the control room of the Capitol, José Mourinho smiles contentedly.  
  
“He wants to play the hero, let him play the hero,” he smirks and turns to his assistants. “Put each of the backpacks for Athletic on the opposite sides. We’ll see what he does about it.”  
  
*  
  
Koke warms his hands above the hot ashes of the fireplace. He doesn’t even think about the feast, he has other thoughts. Some more gloomy than others.  
  
He thinks about all the instructions he gave Javier for the case he wouldn’t come back before getting on the train to the Capitol. He made it sound like only a possibility, but well, it was before he saw the other tributes, and before his brain actually processed what going to the Games meant. Out of them all, Óliver’s brain processed it the fastest and he jumped around his neck before Koke could stop him for the sake of what he'd just said.  
  
He could come back. There’s nine of them now. Eight more to go and he can come back. It still sounds like awfully lot. But actually it could be seven.  
  
He looks at Álvaro. He wonders if he needs this alliance. Comes to the conclusion that he definitely doesn’t need it. They have practically no chance to make it to the end both, especially with the Careers’ pack still holding together.  
  
He could kill him now. It would solve a lot of things. One opponent less, no awkwardness in breaking the alliance. The time is absolutely right. Possibilities endless. He could strangle him without a problem, he has all the advantages. But suddenly the thought of it disgusts him. Knife will be better. He can do it quickly. Álvaro won’t even feel anything.  
  
He reaches for the knife carefully and shuffles closer to Álvaro. When he grips the knife tighter, Álvaro stirs, turns to his side and curls up in a ball, shaking from cold. Koke freezes and waits, but Álvaro doesn’t wake up.  
  
Koke throws the knife in the grass, grabs his sleeping bag and covers Álvaro with it. Álvaro snuggles down under it and mumbles something unintelligible, expression softening and breath becoming regular.  
  
*  
  
In the Games Headquarters, Sara Carbonero bangs her fist into the table.  
  
“Idiot!” she yells.


	8. Eight

The mentors get up early to gather in front of the screens. With the feast coming, the things in arena are going to get interesting from the morning because the tributes have to get to the Cornucopia, at least those who decide to go.  
  
Sergio arrives when most of the tributes and escorts are munching breakfast while watching the Careers get ready for the journey, except for Gurpegui who is eyeing Iturraspe disapprovingly most of the time.  
  
“Where is Cristiano?” Llorente asks because he is nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Cristiano is still recovering from his hysteria,” Puyol informs them. “He was hysterically yelling ‘Don’t you dare, you fucking bastard!’ at Koke, at the screen, that is. They gave him some pills to calm down, so I guess he’s sleeping.”  
  
 _On the screens, Pedro checks his spear and closes the backpack with water and some food for cases of emergency. Then he looks over at Costa who is getting his axe ready.  
  
“Noon, noon...” Costa mumbles. “How are we supposed to know when it’s noon?”  
  
“The sun,” Iturraspe says calmly and after a moment of hesitating, puts his sword under the rocks with other things, taking only a few throwing knives.  
  
“I have no chance to talk you out of this, do I?” Gurpegui sighs.  
  
Iturraspe shakes his head.  
  
“No.”  
  
“If I could get up, I swear I’d tie you to a tree or something.”  
  
Iturraspe grins at him.  
  
“I’m ready to believe it. After all I still remember when you wanted to use a tranquilizer gun on me when I was a kid.”  
  
“How I wish I had it here.”  
  
He cradles the back of Iturraspe’s neck and then pulls, pressing their foreheads together.  
  
“Be careful.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Costa folds his arms and clears his throat.  
  
“If you two are done being all sentimental, we should get going,” he says.  
  
Iturraspe rolls his eyes, grabs his backpack and follows him and Pedro. Unlike them, though, he isn’t excited about the trip._  
  
*  
  
Koke and Álvaro are on the way since the early morning. Koke is glad that they don’t talk much because he still feels fairly guilty about last night, the feeling intensifying whenever Álvaro looks at him with his trusting eyes and smile that he doesn’t fake.  
  
“Going there both is nonsense,” Álvaro says.  
  
“Right,” Koke nods. “I can go and you can back me up from somewhere.”  
  
“Why you?”  
  
“Because you have the bow,” Koke says. “That’s good for backing me up from a distance, but if someone managed to get close to you, you wouldn’t have enough time to shoot.”  
  
“Right. You think all the Careers will come?”  
  
“Sure. It’s an opportunity for them to prey on the weaker ones.”  
  
“And an opportunity for us?” Álvaro asks.  
  
Koke sighs.  
  
“I would rather get the stuff and go. I’m not sure about fighting in the open. But if I have a chance to get someone, I will.”  
  
“Fine. Too bad I don’t have enough arrows anymore. I could get them all.”  
  
“Maybe that’s what you’re going to get,” Koke suggests.  
  
“Yes, but then I’d have to hope the Gamemakers will serve the other tributes to me once more,” Álvaro smirks.  
  
They can see the Cornucopia already, the metal construction of it shining in the sun.  
  
“So I’ll stay here,” Álvaro says. “Then once you run, I’ll run and we’ll meet in our old camp at the hot spring.”  
  
Koke nods. Álvaro hides behind some bushes while he continues to the edge of the circle where everything began.  
  
*  
  
Bojan is heading to the Cornucopia, but isn’t as determined as the other tributes. Sure, maybe the feast is his last chance, his only chance. Whatever may be in his backpack can be useful because he doesn’t have anything except for the first-aid kit.  
  
But it also means that he will have to face other tributes, possibly all of them. Without a weapon. He realizes how crazy it sounds. But he can’t win if he just stays put all the time.  
  
When he has the Cornucopia within view, he stops. It’s the last chance to go back. He can’t see anyone else, but he knows that they are there, just waiting for the right moment. He asks himself what Sergio would advise him to do. He wanted him to go to the initial bloodbath, but it was a different situation, with plenty of weapons he could grab, and nobody had a weapon at the very beginning. This is clear suicide.  
  
Sergio would never advise him to go there.  
  
With a sigh, he turns around and goes back.  
  
*  
  
“Whatever happens, remember that Morata is mine!” Costa growls. “I’m here mainly because of him, so if one of you gets him before me, I’ll rip you into pieces.”  
  
Pedro chuckles while Iturraspe doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s looking at the circle around the Cornucopia, trying to figure out his strategy. His and Gurpegui’s backpacks are on the opposite sides. The good thing is that next to his backpack, there’s Costa’s backpack. Nobody with enough common sense would run there. And if the situation gets too dangerous, he’ll just grab Gurpegui’s backpack and leave his there.  
  
“Think we can already go there?” Pedro asks. “I mean, maybe there are mines or something...”  
  
“You’re a mine yourself,” Costa snaps. “But where are the others? I hope they didn’t back out, I didn’t walk all the way here for something that surely will be muesli bars!”  
  
“Well, and I shit on you, I want my things,” Iturraspe says and heads in the direction of the backpack.  
  
In that moment, Luka Modrić runs out of the forests and heads to the Cornucopia blindly, like all he can see is the backpack that hopefully contains food. He bumps into Iturraspe and shrieks, but Iturraspe just pushes him out of his way and runs to the opposite side. It seems to have officially started the feast because Koke also makes an appearance after that and Costa and Pedro join. No one else comes in, though.  
  
Luka makes a grab for the backpack, practically throwing himself at it, and it saves him from Koke’s spear that was aimed at him and now flies above his head. Luka hugs the backpack to his chest protectively and scrambles to his feet.  
  
By that time, Iturraspe grabs the second backpack and not waiting for anything, sprints towards the forest. Luka runs in the opposite direction, swiftly avoiding Koke who is now without his spear so all he intends to do is take the backpacks and get away. Pedro makes a move in Luka’s direction but is slightly taken aback when Luka doesn’t get scared as much as he would expect. He just hugs his backpack tighter and glares at Pedro.  
  
“Mine!” he mumbles. “It’s mine! Mine!”  
  
He sprints away and disappears behind a tree just when Pedro throws his spear at him. The spear gets stuck in the trunk. Pedro curses. So does Costa. They are now alone in the circle, all the other tributes gone. Pedro was also too busy to react when Koke went to take his spear back.  
  
“I can’t believe it!” Costa growls. “He didn’t show up! That little fucker didn’t show up!”  
  
“Maybe he still will?” Pedro suggests.  
  
“No. He doesn’t have to now.”  
  
“Why?” Pedro frowns.  
  
“Because Koke took two backpacks, for fuck’s sake, it’s Koke his ally, you idiot!” Costa yells. “Well, I’ll look around if he’s not hiding somewhere. He can’t be far if Koke was here.”  
  
“What about the other backpacks?” Pedro asks, looking greedily at the backpacks that Diego Alves and Bojan didn’t try to claim. “It would be a pity to leave that stuff here.”  
  
“I don’t care, I want Morata!” Costa says and readies his axe. “You can choke on that stuff on your own.”  
  
Then he runs into the forest, leaving Pedro in the circle.  
  
*  
  
Carlos Gurpegui makes a grab for his sword when he hears steps approaching the rocks behind which he is hiding. Not that he could effectively defend himself, but it’s still better to die with a weapon in hand.  
  
“So I run all the way and you wave a sword at me?” Iturraspe asks breathily and plops on the grass next to Gurpegui.  
  
Gurpegui throws the sword away and looks at him.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asks.  
  
“Give me a moment and I will be,” Iturraspe says, reaches for a bottle with water and drinks half of it.   
  
Then he opens one of the backpacks and pulls out the medicine and first aid kit.  
  
“What about the others?” Gurpegui asks while Iturraspe is tending to his wound.  
  
“I don’t give a damn about them,” Iturraspe says. “Costa is probably still hunting Morata somewhere and Pedro is trailing behind him, I’d say.”  
  
“Did everyone show up?”  
  
“No. Just us, Modrić and Koke.”  
  
Gurpegui takes a breath, but in that moment a frustrated roar sounds somewhere far away.  
  
“I’d say Costa didn’t find him,” Gurpegui states.  
  
*  
  
Pedro takes his backpack and then eyes the other two. He picks up the one that should have belonged to Bojan. It’s quite heavy. He hopes the other one will be lighter because he doesn’t want to carry that much weight around. He bends over to pick up the one that was intended for Diego Alves.  
  
In that very moment, Diego Alves falls off the sky right in front of him.  
  
Of course not. He just jumps down the Cornucopia where he was hiding all the time. Before Pedro can blink, his back connects with the metal wall of the Cornucopia.  
  
“Not so brave now you don’t have Costa behind your back, eh?” Diego sneers.  
  
Pedro gulps.  
  
“Look, if you want the supplies, I’ll back out… it’s not personal…” he blurts out.  
  
“It is personal. It’s personal as hell, Rodríguez. All I’ve seen you do here was just snapping a rabbit’s neck in front of a boy who didn’t have it all right in his head anymore, and then, as I figured, you turned your back on your district partner, more, on your district partner who was your ally! Not the others,  _you_  are the shame of these Games, Rodríguez, the shame of this shameful invention of the Capitol! And I will snap your neck like you did to that rabbit!”  
  
Pedro resorts to his last hope, calling on Costa, but Costa, even if he hears him, is obviously too far away to come to his rescue in time. Diego shakes his head.  
  
“Even in your last moments you have to be pathetic.”  
  
*  
  
Diego Costa hears Pedro’s calling but he’s a few minutes from the Cornucopia now. He hesitates between continuing his search for Morata, that he knows deep inside is useless, and going back to the Cornucopia. He sighs. Pedro might be an idiot, but he’s still his ally.  
  
He heads back, even runs, albeit not at his top speed. He wouldn’t be fast enough anyway. By the time he reaches the Cornucopia, all he can see is Pedro’s body on the ground and Diego Alves’ back, disappearing in the forests, with his, Pedro’s and Bojan’s backpacks.  
  
*  
  
Koke gets back to the old camp and looks around. The place doesn’t look like someone was there recently.  
  
“Álvaro?” he calls quietly.  
  
No answer. Koke frowns. For a while he feels angry. Then realizes he has no right for it. After all, last night he wanted to kill Álvaro, so if Álvaro decided to break the alliance himself, he should be even grateful that he only broke it and didn’t kill him. Then he shakes his head. It doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to break the alliance, Álvaro would either do it before the feast and try to go for his backpack alone, or come back, take his and then break the alliance. But not leave both of the backpacks with Koke. That is when Koke becomes worried.  
  
He waits for several minutes. Then grabs his spear when he hears the branches crack under someone’s feet. He loosens his grip on it when Álvaro appears between the trees.  
  
“Where were you?” Koke asks and then stops in his tracks. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”  
  
Álvaro looks at himself like he wants to see what Koke is talking about. Then he shakes his head.  
  
“It’s nothing.”  
  
“Nothing looks different!” Koke snaps. “What happened?”  
  
“Iturraspe,” Álvaro says quietly. “He wouldn’t have even noticed me, if I didn’t try to shoot him. That guy throws knives faster than you blink, I swear. I’m an idiot, Koke.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Koke sighs and comes closer to him. “I should look at the wound.”  
  
Álvaro gives him a distant, almost delirious smile and then collapses in his arms. Koke takes a deep breath to prevent himself from panicking and gently lays him in the grass. Then he lifts his head.  
  
“It’s time to move your perfectly exfoliated ass, Cristiano, don’t you think?” he yells.  
  
*  
  
It’s already getting dark when Costa arrives in their camp. Gurpegui is resting, his leg freshly bandaged. Iturraspe is taking care of the fire. Costa throws his backpack that is full of food and a new pair of black gloves on the ground and sits down.  
  
“Pedro is dead,” he says.  
  
Gurpegui props himself up on his elbows.  
  
“How?” he asks.  
  
“Alves,” Costa says. “He must have been waiting there all the time. Then jumped on the opportunity when Pedro stayed alone.”  
  
Gurpegui whistles in appreciation. Iturraspe doesn’t even lift his head from the fire.  
  
“And Morata’s ally is Koke,” Costa adds. “Dammit. I was hoping for someone else. Koke has a brain.”  
  
Gurpegui laughs at the way Costa says it like it is the most awful crime. The anthem sounds and the badges of all districts appear in the sky, followed by Pedro’s face.  
  
“So there’s still eight of us,” Costa states. “If only I could get my hands on Morata...”  
  
Iturraspe rolls his eyes.  
  
“Won’t you have some dinner?” he asks. “You’re somehow too talkative today.”  
  
Costa grins at him and then reaches for his new backpack.  
  
“Thank God, no muesli bars,” he says.  
  
*  
  
The first thing that comes to Álvaro’s mind when he opens his eyes is that he’s dead. All he can see are tiny dots of light. Then a sharp pain shoots up his upper body and he realizes that he’s most probably not dead because dead cannot feel pain. And the dots of light must be simply stars.  
  
He’s tucked in a sleeping bag. He tries to lift his head but gives up when it immediately makes him feel dizzy, and the blinding pain caused by the mere movement makes him cry out. In the very next moment, Koke appears by his side.  
  
“Damn, I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up anymore,” he says.  
  
“I wish I didn’t,” Álvaro whispers.  
  
“You have to tell me what to do. I was hoping your awesome mentor would help us, but he’s either drunk or completely dumb.”  
  
Álvaro smiles weakly.  
  
“I guess getting the money from sponsors and then the right thing can’t be done that quickly.”  
  
“Then what?” Koke asks.  
  
“When I move, I’ll wake up the whole arena. You have to keep me quiet until the morning.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Álvaro looks somewhere to his left. Koke follows his gaze and looks at the plant with strange pink flowers.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Datura,” Álvaro whispers. “Now listen. You will practically poison me with this.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It will knock me unconscious. Hopefully just that.”  
  
“You’re not sure?” Koke frowns.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then I’m not touching it,” Koke says resolutely.  
  
“Koke...”  
  
“No. I’m terrible at taking care of someone, and I know nothing about herbs. When even you’re not sure about it, I’m not going to kill you with it. Just lay still and don’t move.”  
  
Álvaro resigns.  
  
“Fine. Did you stop the bleeding?”  
  
“I tried. I think it stopped.”  
  
Koke realizes that it’s probably the longest dialogue between them since they became allies. Also he knows how absurd it is. The night before he wanted to kill Álvaro, now he’s trying to save his life. For what, actually, when he needs him dead? He needs everyone dead, so that he can go home, have a big house and enough food for himself and the boys. He would still have to go to the Capitol from time to time and he would have to fear every year that Sara Carbonero draws one of the boys’ name, but at least they wouldn’t be there as many times as they inevitably will be there if he doesn’t come back. Taking monthly rations in exchange for  _tesserae_  would be the only way for them to survive.  
  
“By the way, Pedro is dead,” he says then to take his thoughts from home. “You were still out when they played the anthem.”  
  
Álvaro nods and Koke hears his teeth chatter. He wonders if he shouldn’t risk it and make a fire, but then realizes it couldn’t help much more than the sleeping bag does. Besides, even though he’s shaking, Álvaro’s skin is burning with fever.  
  
“Are there any herbs for fever?” Koke asks. “Some that won’t kill you in the process of treating you?”  
  
Álvaro gives another weak smile.  
  
“There are, but I haven’t seen them here. And in the darkness you wouldn’t recognize them anyway.”  
  
“Was this a mild way to tell me I’m useless?” Koke smirks.  
  
“No,” Álvaro whispers. “It was a lame way to tell you not to go away.”  
  
“It was lame,” Koke nods. “Very lame.”


	9. Nine

Cristiano storms into the common room wearing pajama pants and no hair gel. It’s such an unusual sight that Carles Puyol almost chokes on his toast and Sara Carbonero immediately starts gesturing towards the camera guys to capture it.  
  
“Why didn’t anyone wake me up?” Cristiano yells. “You were all hoping he’d die, right?”  
  
“Calm down, Crissy,” Puyol rolls his eyes.  
  
He thinks it only logical that he doesn’t have to give a damn if Morata dies or not as both of his tributes are already dead.  
  
“Want me to be honest? Yes, I did,” Llorente says calmly.  
  
“I did as well,” Villa mumbles. “At least Koke would actually focus on trying to win, and Costa would stop being obsessed with him and went after other tributes.”  
  
“Don’t even mention Koke!” Sara snaps. “He could have killed him million times already.”  
  
“Well, that’s what I’m talking about,” Villa says. “If he can’t kill him, we just have to hope for someone else.”  
  
“I do hope, for Costa,” Sara smirks.  
  
“Go to hell, all of you!” Cristiano screams and runs away, tapping madly on his tablet.  
  
The other mentors exchange amused looks and then go back to watching the screens.  
  
*  
  
Luka Modrić spent the night in his cave, waking up a few times with a panic attack because he dreamt that his newly acquired food was gone. He spent several minutes petting the food before falling asleep again.  
  
He prepares a hearty breakfast, first warm meal since he left the Capitol, because in his backpack he also found a packet of matches and even a simple slingshot with which he managed to shoot a squirrel down the tree (he marveled at his skills so long that the squirrel regained consciousness and almost ran away, but he caught it in time). Going to the feast was definitely a win.  
  
He wonders if the food can last him until the other tributes kill each other. It will obviously depend on how quickly they do it. So he has to be careful with the rations.  
  
*  
  
The Careers don’t have to worry about food either. Costa found enough of it in his backpack and some was also in Gurpegui’s and Iturraspe’s backpacks. Plus they have the traps set, so Costa goes to check them while Iturraspe checks Gurpegui’s wound that already looks a lot better.  
  
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” Gurpegui asks.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That the night was so calm. Maybe some guys were happily checking out their new supplies, but it was maybe the first night that Morata didn’t try to shoot us.”  
  
“Well, that might be because he couldn’t try,” Iturraspe says quietly.  
  
Gurpegui sits up abruptly and looks at him.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Iturraspe sighs and looks around to make sure Costa is nowhere near.  
  
“When I was running from the Cornucopia, Morata tried to shoot me,” he says. “I heard him and threw a knife at him. I didn’t look back after that, but I suppose that I hit him. At least he didn’t try to pursue me or shoot at me again.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Gurpegui asks.  
  
“Because it wasn’t important.”  
  
“You almost getting shot by Morata isn’t important?”  
  
“No, because it was  _almost._  And as he is not dead either, it’s like nothing happened.”  
  
“Not really,” Gurpegui says thoughtfully. “He’s probably injured. So he, and his ally, if Costa was right and it’s Koke, will lay low at least today. It’s a perfect opportunity to move around a bit, and try to get the others.”  
  
“Try to get the others?” Costa’s voice sounds nearer than they expected.  
  
Both jump up, but Costa is grinning in such way that it’s clear he only caught the last sentence.  
  
“I’m all for it,” he says and throws a dead pheasant on the ground. “How is it with you moving around, though, Gurpe?”  
  
“I’m quite alright,” Gurpegui says. “If we don’t do many sprints...”  
  
“I’m not a friend of those either,” Costa snorts. “So let’s roast this monster and decide who we don’t want around here anymore.”  
  
*  
  
Koke is almost falling asleep with his eyes open. He didn’t get a minute of sleep during the night because the watch was obviously up to him and so was tending to Álvaro’s wound. He managed to at least find the same herbs that Álvaro used on his hand and tried to use them, changing the makeshift bandages every few hours. He had to clamp his hand over Álvaro’s mouth every time and hold him down, and he felt like the biggest bastard in the world.  
  
Álvaro fell into a delirious drowse by dawn and Koke actually doesn’t know if he should be worried or relieved. He touches Álvaro’s forehead and draws the hand back. It’s like touching a stove. Álvaro’s cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing shallowly.  
  
“Come on, you’re not going to die like this,” Koke mumbles.  
  
Álvaro’s lashes flutter and he gives a weak smile.  
  
“Like this or other way, what does it matter?”  
  
“It matters a lot,” Koke says firmly.  
  
“You think dying in a fight is alright but this isn’t? Why?”  
  
“Because this is not the way people should remember you.”  
  
Álvaro doesn’t answer, just smiles like Koke is some romantic fool. Koke reaches for a bottle with water.  
  
“You should drink a bit,” he says.  
  
Álvaro shakes his head so Koke gives up and just wets Álvaro’s chapped lips with his finger. For the first time Álvaro opens his eyes and looks at Koke with a mix of surprise and gratefulness. Suddenly it all feels so awkward that Koke closes his eyes to escape Álvaro’s gaze. He can imagine the spectators in the Capitol wiping away stray tears right now, can imagine Villa and Sara rolling their eyes, and can imagine Javier, Saúl and Óliver back home. Saúl is most likely half-doubling with laughter, Javier is probably annoyed by Koke’s attitude that’s getting him no closer to winning. Óliver, Koke imagines, is just watching on quietly, and out of them three, he is perhaps the only one not to judge him.  
  
“Are you sure you even have a mentor?” Koke asks to break the awkwardness.  
  
“I don’t know,” Álvaro whispers. “I’m starting to doubt it as well.”  
  
In that very moment, a parachute floats down the sky and lands in the grass between them.  
  
*  
  
Bojan wakes up on the tree he spent the night on, but doesn’t feel like getting down. His body refuses to move. He’s beyond hungry. In the last few days he only had a few berries, roots and nuts. It’s maybe enough to keep him alive, but not strong enough to climb trees and run.  
  
Anyways, why should he even care when he doesn’t have a weapon. He could only become an easy prey for some of the other tributes. If some of them were strong enough to kill Pedro who had a weapon and most likely enough food, a living corpse like Bojan would be actually too easy for them.  
  
He now regrets that he didn't go to the feast. He would either have some food or a weapon now, or he would be already dead. Both possibilities sound better than his current state.  
  
He has a tiny sparkle of hope when he thinks of sponsors, but he didn’t really convince them he is worth investing in. He chickened out. Probably as the only one. So he better do something to convince them he is still willing to play.  
  
Just when he gets down the tree, a strange sound catches his attention and he freezes in his tracks. He looks back carefully and feels his heart skip a beat. He is looking at a lion. An actual lion.  
  
*  
  
President Florentino opens the door of the Control Room and looks at Mourinho.  
  
“Are you drunk or mad?” he demands. “What is that lion doing there?”  
  
“Well, I thought we should get the tributes a bit closer together. There’s also a bear in Modrić’s cave and a puma near Alves’ camp. I wanted something bigger than puma for him, but...”  
  
“Do you realize that if half of the tributes get eaten by animals, the spectators are going to smash you over the head with their screens?” Florentino growls.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Mourinho smirks. “It won’t happen.”  
  
*  
  
Costa takes a huge bite of the pheasant’s leg and puts on a thoughtful face, which looks no less menacing than his usual face.  
  
“So, who is still left?” he asks.  
  
“Morata...” Gurpegui starts.  
  
“Morata is mine!” Costa growls and both Gurpegui and Iturraspe roll their eyes secretly.  
  
“Koke, obviously,” Iturraspe continues.  
  
“Yeah, right,” Costa says. “But to get to him, we need to get rid of Morata first. What about Alves?”  
  
Iturraspe just shrugs.  
  
“He could be anywhere. We want the weaker ones first, don’t we? And Alves is not the case.”  
  
“You have a new idol, Iturraspe?” Costa sneers.  
  
“You saw it yourself, he could get Pedro by himself, while you are plotting here how we’d get him in three,” Iturraspe says calmly.  
  
“Fine, fine,” Gurpegui jumps in to prevent them from getting into a fight. “We said weaker ones. Modrić.”  
  
“Modrić is probably still making love to his backpack,” Costa chuckles and this time even Iturraspe laughs. “He’s most likely hidden somewhere, but he has to come out sooner or later to get water.”  
  
“Then we should wait by a water source,” Gurpegui nods. “He won’t go to the lake, probably, that’s too much in the open. I suggest the spring deeper in the woods.”  
  
The others nod affirmatively and start packing their things.  
  
*  
  
Koke opens the small case the parachute is carrying and looks at the syringe it hides.  
  
“Am I supposed to jab this into you?” he asks.  
  
Álvaro looks at him and raises his brows.  
  
“Probably yes.”  
  
“Can’t you do it yourself?” Koke groans.  
  
Álvaro chuckles and then winces when his body reminds him it’s not the best thing to do.  
  
“You can throw heavy rocks like they are feathers but you’re afraid of needles?”  
  
“I’m not afraid... well, so what, I am!”  
  
“Man up!” Álvaro smiles and rolls his sleeve up. “If you want to faint, do it  _after_  you give it to me, okay?”  
  
Koke uncaps the needle and winces while approaching Álvaro’s arm with it. Álvaro now looks almost amused.  
  
“On three,” Álvaro says. “One, two...”  
  
“Sweet Jesus in heaven!” Koke squeaks and closing his eyes, jabs the needle in Álvaro’s arm blindly.  
  
*  
  
Jonas, the only mentor Valencia have after Sergio became Bojan’s mentor, is sitting in front of the screens with a glass in one hand, a bottle of Capitol’s finest whiskey in the other. He is not used to being still concerned at this stage of the Games. Valencia usually loses the tributes early, mostly in the initial bloodbath. Mainly because the tributes are no professionals. Mostly they are poor kids who had their name in the balls way too many times to keep their families from starving.  
  
Diego Alves is already the furthest anyone from Valencia has been since Sergio Canales miraculously won three years ago. But considering the presence of a puma in the arena, this run is likely coming to an end. And the whiskey helps Jonas brace himself for it.  
  
 _Diego does run, though only for a while. Then he stops, turns around and looks at the puma. The puma stops as well. Diego narrows his eyes and then makes a step closer to it._  
  
Jonas pours himself another shot and downs it, mumbling something about his tribute going completely insane now.  
  
 _In the meanwhile, Diego makes another two steps towards the puma that is still standing there, baring its teeth.  
  
“Hello, friend,” Diego drawls and smiles. “Such a beautiful creature you are. Scary and fast, aren’t you?”  
  
He reaches out towards it and his smile gets wider.  
  
“Too bad you’re not real.”  
  
The moment his hand should touch the puma’s head, the puma dissolves in a blackish cloud. Diego laughs heartily.  
  
“Clever move, Mourinho,” he says. “But not clever enough.”_  
  
*  
  
Sergio has been bracing himself for a completely different thing than Jonas, because he isn’t bringing himself to admit that Bojan should die just yet. He made it himself, however unlikely it seemed before the Games. So it’s not impossible.  
  
However, he is not likely to make it without Sergio’s help, and that needs two glasses of Capitol’s finest as well. He drinks them and then heads to one of the private rooms where the sponsors are having one of the countless banquets.  
  
“Mr. González?” he asks.  
  
Raúl turns around and gives a half-surprised, half-smug smile.  
  
“Sergio,” he says and waves a glass of champagne in the air, suggesting that he is already a bit drunk. “Me and my friends were just discussing...”  
  
“I need to talk to you,” Sergio interrupts him. “In private.”  
  
Raúl raises his brows but then gestures to a door at the other side of the room. They pass all the sponsors, laughing and bickering about their bets. Sergio spots Cristiano fawning over Zinedine Zidane, and he doesn’t even feel disgusted this time.  _Cristiano is doing it right. He managed to save his tribute._  Sergio has to do the same.  
  
The other room is small and the air in it a bit heavy, but at least the voices from the banquet are muffled there.  
  
“So, what do you need?” Raúl asks.  
  
“Rather what Bojan needs,” Sergio says.  
  
“Oh,” Raúl smiles. “I guess whatever it is, he could have gotten it at the feast. Didn’t you instruct him that going to the feasts is usually mandatory for winning?”  
  
“Not when it’s clear suicide,” Sergio says. “He needs a weapon.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Raúl says and lays the empty glass on the floor. “A weapon. But you know how expensive the weapons are at this stage of the Games.”  
  
 _As if anything is expensive for you,_  Sergio thinks.  _You finance even what Florentino isn’t able to finance himself._  
  
“I would pay you back,” Sergio says.  
  
“Would you?” Raúl smiles. “Let’s see...”  
  
He pulls out his tablet and dabs his finger on it a few times.  
  
“Expensive indeed...” he mumbles. “But alright. Let’s say I could afford to invest in a... knife.”  
  
A knife is better than what Sergio was hoping for. Raúl scrolls down and sighs.  
  
“And a loaf of bread to make the sum pretty and round.”  
  
Sergio’s face lights up. Raúl puts away the tablet and looks at him.  
  
“Well?” he says suggestively.  
  
“N-now?” Sergio blinks.  
  
“We can also do it tomorrow, if your tribute can wait for the weapon and food until then.”  
  
Sergio swallows hard.  
  
“No, sure, now is fine,” he says then and reaches for Raúl’s belt.  
  
*  
  
Koke waits until dusk to make a fire. They haven’t left their camp by the hot spring, but he managed to catch a hare and collect some herbs and berries to make a decent meal. When Álvaro shuffles closer to the fire and looks at the food curiously, it’s clear that he’s feeling a lot better.  
  
“Thank you,” he says quietly.  
  
“For?” Koke asks.  
  
“For not leaving me. For taking care of me. You saved my life.”  
  
“I didn’t. Cristiano did.”  
  
“No, you did. Without you I’d be dead before he could send me the medicine. I’m just afraid I won’t be ever able to pay you back.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Koke mumbles.  
  
Álvaro nibbles at a piece of meat and looks at him.  
  
“What if it comes down to the two of us?” he asks then.  
  
Koke shrugs and throws another branch in the fire.  
  
“We’ll see then. But I don’t think it’s likely to happen.”  
  
“I’d let you take it,” Álvaro says.  
  
Koke frowns and looks at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The win. I’d let you win.”  
  
“You wouldn’t,” Koke chuckles. “Nobody would do that.”  
  
“I would. You should be the one to come back home. You have someone waiting for you there. Someone who needs you. It would be only fair.”  
  
Koke takes a breath to say something, but in that moment, someone’s shriek sounds only a few meters from them and then they hear steps that are quickly approaching, as if the person is running right to them. Álvaro reaches for his bow, but Koke is faster. He grabs his spear and just as the person runs out of the woods, he throws it.  
  
*  
  
Sergio comes back to the main room just when Koke’s spear flies through Bojan’s chest. In the same moment the holographic lion that was pursuing him disappears.  
  
Sergio makes a step towards the screens like he could jump through them in the arena, if not to stop it all, then at least to hold Bojan’s hand.  
  
In the next moment his vision goes black and he collapses in David Villa’s waiting arms.


	10. Ten

Álvaro pulls himself together first. He jumps up and starts packing all things.

“Move, quick!” he snaps at Koke.

“Why?” Koke asks, still a bit shaken.

It’s only his second kill in the arena, and he still feels bad about it. Mainly because it looks like he only kills the weak ones. Though if someone made it to the last eight, he couldn’t be that weak.

“Because they will send the hovercraft here, to pick up the body,” Álvaro says. “And so the others will know where someone died, which means they will know where the one who killed him probably is. The Careers are waiting for this, so we need to get out of here right now!”

Koke nods, rolls up his sleeping bag and puts the rests of their dinner in his backpack. Álvaro throws his bow over his shoulder and motions in one direction. Just when they leave their camp, the hovercraft appears.

*

Sergio wakes up on the couch in one of the side rooms. Slowly he remembers what happened before he fainted. Raúl, and then the screens. The lion chasing Bojan, the lion that wasn’t real, just an awful joke, a holograph projected by Mourinho in the arena to get the tributes together. The spear flying from Koke’s hand with such force it basically pinned Bojan to a tree.

Sergio throws up.

It’s over, it’s over for him, for them. He could go home now, even though the mentors usually stay until the end of the Games anyway. It’s polite to welcome the Victor.

And home will never feel like home again anyway.

David Villa walks in and gives Sergio a worried look.

“Say it wasn’t true,” Sergio whispers. “Say he’s not...”

“I’m sorry, Sergio,” Villa says.

The absurdity of the situation sinks in. Villa is sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry that Bojan is dead? Sorry that it was his tribute who killed him? Sorry these Games are even going on?

“I... did they...” Sergio starts but then doesn't finish the question.

Villa knows what he wants to ask anyway.

“They sent the body here first before it goes to his district of origin... if you want to...”

Sergio shakes his head wildly. He couldn’t see Bojan like that. And he’s sure the cameras would circle around him like they always do, they prey on the tributes even when they’re dead, prey on the families that come to claim the bodies. And Sergio couldn’t control his emotions, couldn’t just cry quietly like he saw Joao’s family cry, and definitely couldn’t keep the solemn, almost proud face that Sergi Roberto’s sister managed to keep at least while the cameras were around.

Instead of it, the mental images make him sick again. Villa manages to drag him into a bathroom in time.

“I can tell them to give you something to help you calm down?” he offers.

Right. Something that will make him sleep, possibly forever, something that will make the images go away. He nods weakly and watches as Villa walks away and pushes a button by the door to call someone to clean the room. Same way as Mourinho probably pushed a button to send a hovercraft to take Bojan’s body from the arena.

Sergio throws up for the third time.

*

The anthem sounds just as the darkness falls. Costa looks at the sky attentively, probably to make sure nobody got Morata before he could do it himself. Iturraspe profits from the noise and distraction of other tributes possibly hiding around to go get water. He inspects the surroundings of the spring in the light that the projection of La Liga badges provides. There are no signs of the presence of someone else. Modrić either isn’t hiding around here, or he hasn’t come out of his hideout yet.

Iturraspe glances indifferently at the image of Bojan shining in the sky, then fills the bottles and walks back to the camp. There, Costa is laughing heartily while eating the last portion of the pheasant.

“I seriously forgot Krkić was still there,” he says. “I would probably kill all of the other tributes and then wonder why the hell I’m not the Victor yet!”

“I can imagine that,” Gurpegui says and looks at Iturraspe.

Luckily Costa doesn’t get the sarcasm.

“I’d like to know who got him, though,” Costa scratches his head. “They could write it there, so that we know. I’m going to propose it to Mourinho after the Games.”

“Oh, so you’re the Victor already?” Iturraspe asks and fishes out a muesli bar from his backpack, probably only to see Costa cringe at the sight of it.

Costa makes a face and throws the bone into the bushes.

“Where the hell is that Modrić, though?” Gurpegui asks.

“I think he hasn’t been here yet, there are no traces by the spring,” Iturraspe says.

“Then maybe he’ll come in the morning,” Gurpegui says. “Who has the first watch?”

Costa looks at him with murderous expression, like he is ready to stick his axe in Gurpegui’s head if he dares to suggest he should have it.

“Me,” Iturraspe says. “You’re second, Gurpe?”

“Right, and I’ll have the last one. Probably I’ll be awake just in time to get Modrić,” Costa smirks. “Still, it sucks without Pedro. He was generally useless, but he could at least stay up on the watch.”

“But he ate way too much,” Gurpegui reminds him.

“Ah, right,” Costa says, zips up his sleeping bag and puts on his black gloves. “Good that he’s dead, then.”

*

Diego Alves is dipping his darts in a mixture of poisonous berries and plant juices when the anthem sounds. He stops what he’s doing for a while and looks up. The badges disappear, replaced by Bojan’s face. Diego sighs.

“You held on well,” he says. “Not well enough, though.”

The sky goes dark again. Diego picks up the pouch he uses to put his darts in and tucks them in carefully. Then he washes his hands meticulously and pulls out some crackers and dried meat that were originally contents of Pedro’s backpack. He found enough food in Pedro’s backpack, a knife in Bojan’s and some new darts in his. He actually has all he needs which gives him the advantage of not having to go hunting. He only needs to get water from time to time.

Which, after he spotted the Careers guarding the spring closest to him and effectively blocking the way to the lake, could be a bit tricky.

He dedicates the next hour to figuring out the strategy to get water without having to face the Careers. Then he smiles contentedly, slides into Rakitić’s sleeping bag and drifts off to sleep.

*

It’s close to midnight when a sound of steps cuts through the silence. Iturraspe, who was just about to pass the watch to Gurpegui, freezes and lays a hand on Gurpegui’s shoulder.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers.

Gurpegui listens carefully and then nods.

“Modrić?”

Iturraspe shrugs and reaches for his sword. Gurpegui looks at Costa who is still sleeping soundly.

“Should we wake him up?” he asks.

“No, he’d wake up the whole arena,” Iturraspe rolls his eyes.

Gurpegui nods. He is quite sure that the first thing Costa would do when they would wake him up would be to yell “What the fuck?” or something similar. Not a good thing when there is a tribute possibly unaware of their presence.

They approach the bushes separating them from the spring carefully. The steps stop momentarily before sounding again, like the person is also listening carefully for any sounds, then restarts whatever they are doing. Iturraspe shows Gurpegui to move further to the side, so that when they come out from two sides, their prey will either have to run further in the woods, where it won’t be so hard to catch him, or he will run right into Costa. And running into a sleeping Costa isn’t a good thing.

The person crouches next to the spring and looks around carefully. Iturraspe glances at Gurpegui over the bushes and smirks. It’s not Modrić. It’s much better.

Álvaro Morata walked right in their territory.

*

Luka Modrić sneaks out of his hideout where he spent the bigger part of the evening crying. He managed to run away from the bear that appeared out of nowhere in his cave, but he had to leave all his food there. Which means he is again screwed.

He considers going back to the cave for it, but doesn’t want to meet the bear again. He’ll rather stick to his leaves again.

He needs to at least get some water.

Tiptoeing towards the spring he keeps thinking about his misery, so he stops in the last moment when he realizes that the spring isn’t abandoned. On the contrary, it looks like it’s rather crowded in there. Álvaro Morata packs two bottles of water in his backpack and retreats back into the forest. Luka wants to take his place but in that moment, Carlos Gurpegui and Ander Iturraspe emerge from behind the bushes and go in the same direction. Luka lets out a breath of relief when they are gone without spotting him.

He quickly drinks some water, because his bottle stayed in the cave as well. Then he decides to go in the opposite direction than Morata and the Careers, just to be safe.

He keeps looking around for some animals that he could shoot with the slingshot that he at least managed to keep because he was luckily holding it when the bear appeared. There are none, and in the dark he probably couldn’t spot them anyway.

He is so focused that he trips over some log and falls, squeaking quietly. Only when he looks back, he realizes that it wasn’t a log.

It was Diego Costa in a sleeping bag.

*

Cristiano Ronaldo is laying on a couch, laughing hysterically and banging his fists in the upholstery. Iker Casillas is covering his eyes while swearing loudly.

The scene on the screens explains their reactions quite well. It has been on replay for the last hour or so. When the DVD with the highlights of these Games comes up, this will surely be one of the best scenes.

_Modrić trips over sleeping Costa. Costa wakes up but doesn’t exactly know what happened. Modrić is too terrified to move, so they stare at each other for a while. Then Modrić tries to get up but finds out he’s probably sprained his ankle. In the meanwhile, Costa is fumbling with his sleeping bag. Modrić pulls out his slingshot and starts shooting at him, but can’t even find any bigger stones so he keeps shooting pinecones while trying to crawl away. Costa is swearing loudly because the zipper of his bag got stuck right in the most inappropriate moment and there are pinecones that keep hitting him in the head._

No wonder Sara Carbonero has been hiding in the bathrooms for over an hour now. This would embarrass even an escort from a less important district.

*

Diego Alves originally intended to wait for the Careers to get distracted by another tribute coming to get water and then sneak past them to get to the lake, but the scene at the spring caught his attention. They had Morata served on a silver plate there, there were two of them, armed with swords. But instead, they decided to follow him.

Whatever it means, it’s now clear that Mourinho’s plan worked. He managed to get all the tributes close to each other. Well, he personally was there voluntarily, but that Mourinho managed to get even Modrić out of his hideout was quite an achievement.

Speaking of Modrić, he appeared right after the Careers left, then ran in the opposite direction. The sounds that followed meant that he obviously met Costa.

Diego thinks for a while. The way to the lake is now open, but he feels like he could miss something really important if he went there just now. He quickly fills his bottle and then follows the Careers.

*

Iturraspe and Gurpegui return when it’s almost morning. When they see Costa frantically cleaning his axe while swearing, they pause and approach him carefully.

“Where the hell were you?” Costa barks. “You call that a watch, Iturraspe?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I call a watch,” Iturraspe says calmly.

“What happened?” Gurpegui asks.

“Modrić happened!” Costa snaps. “He fucking tripped over me and he was shooting fucking pinecones at me!”

Iturraspe pretends that he’s straightening up his collar to hide that he’s laughing. Gurpegui looks at Costa like he went crazy.

“Are you sure you didn’t dream it?” he asks.

“If Modrić doesn’t appear in the death list tonight, then I did. Otherwise I chopped that rat into pieces when I finally managed to get out of this sleeping bag, which by the way sucks.”

“Hey, cheer up,” Gurpegui says.

“What the fuck?” Costa growls. “You want me to cheer up? I’d need to have a fucking reason for it!”

“You’ll have it,” Gurpegui smiles.

“Yeah? And that is?”

“We found you your darling Morata,” Iturraspe grins. 


	11. Eleven

Costa is still in a grumpy mood after they have breakfast. Which means that it’s twice as hard to talk some common sense into him when his mind is set on the “chop everything into pieces” tactics.  
  
“We need to wait for them to split,” Gurpegui says. “I don’t want to be dealing with another arrow in my leg and probably a spear in my...”  
  
“Ear?” Iturraspe suggests and jumps back before Gurpegui can hit him.  
  
“Split?” Costa groans. “You want me to get just one when I could get two?”  
  
“Your district partner?” Iturraspe frowns.  
  
“I shit on him,” Costa says. “If there’s a don’t-kill-your-district-partner policy in Bilbao, in my district there’s only the kill-everyone-and-win policy.”  
  
“We should get going then, if we don’t want to chase them around the whole arena again. I still don’t get why they are all here suddenly. Modrić, then the two of them...” Gurpegui says.  
  
“We don’t know what’s going on in the other parts of the arena,” Iturraspe says. “There’s too little of us now. They must want us to get together. Who knows what they’ve done? I mean, maybe there’s no water in the other parts anymore. No food. There could have been a fire like three years ago. A flood like in the 40th year.”  
  
“Are you a fucking walking archive of all the Games?” Costa snorts.  
  
“He is,” Gurpegui smirks. “Ask him a number and he spills it all out. When we watch movies in the evening, he watches old Games. And he’s been doing that since he was... probably ten or so.”  
  
“Yes, and it tells me that if we don’t get going now and just sit here, we’ll soon become the prey instead of the hunters,” Iturraspe snaps.  
  
“Now you speak like that fucking mannequin Ronaldo,” Costa says and gets up. “Alright, let’s get that little bastard out of my arena forever.”  
  
Only Gurpegui’s foot stomping on his keeps Iturraspe from commenting on Costa’s possessiveness over the arena.  
  
*  
  
Sergio feels like something heavy hit him over the head. The day before Villa returned with one of the Capitol doctors, Dr. Carneiro, who administered some calming medicine to him. He remembered her saying it was the usual stuff they used. Well, if the usual stuff meant something that felt like a horse kicked him in the head and caused him to lose consciousness immediately, then the doctors knew what they were doing.  
  
It still doesn’t stop the memories from coming back. This time, though, he feels mostly numbness. At least he doesn’t throw up immediately.  
  
He doesn’t feel like meeting other people, but understands that he can’t keep hiding here for the rest of the Games. He gets up and walks to the main room slowly. Most of the mentors are there. Cristiano looks worried, Villa and Sara are running around frantically, arguing in the process. Llorente is munching on potato chips calmly.  
  
“Sergio!” Iker Casillas says when he spots him. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Numb,” Sergio mumbles and slumps in a chair.  
  
Then he notices that Iker doesn’t fret over anything happening on the screens.  
  
“Your...” he starts.  
  
“Yes,” Iker nods. “Luka’s gone. Tripped over sleeping Costa. Not the best thing that could happen to you.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sergio whispers.  
  
Iker just shrugs.  
  
“Well, I’m used to it. The only time my tribute won was with Cristiano.”  
  
Sergio wonders if he will ever be able to get used to it. He’s been a mentor for three years now. Every year, his tribute died. He keeps seeing them all in his dreams. He keeps wondering if he could have done more to save them. No wonder Jonas is basically an alcohol addict by now.  
  
He looks at the screens to get some distraction. A young reporter is interviewing some elderly, grumpy man from Atlético Madrid. According to the label under his name it’s the owner of the quarry Koke works in.  
  
 _“Look, woman,” he says and the reporter cringes. “I don’t give a crap. I lose either way, huh?”  
  
“What do you mean?” the reporter asks.  
  
“I mean, if he loses, he’s dead. If he wins, he gets a house and monthly rations and he doesn’t have to move his ass anymore. Either way I’m losing my best guy, crap.”  
  
“But... you would want him to win or not?” the reporter repeats her original question patiently.  
  
“Well, yeah,” the man scratches his head. “He’s a good guy. He’d deserve it. Also I don’t want that moron from the lumbering company for whom Costa works to come boast to me every single day. And yeah, it would be better also because of Koke’s boys.”  
  
“What boys?” the reporter asks with sudden enthusiasm.  
  
“Nah, woman, I gotta work, ain’t got time for this,” the man grumbles and pushes the microphone she’s sticking in his face away.  
  
The reporter looks into the camera and smiles.  
  
“We will be back from Atlético Madrid soon...” she starts.  
  
The sound of a pneumatic drill makes it impossible to hear the rest of her speech._  
  
*  
  
Koke throws his net and spear on the ground and kicks a stone.  
  
“Nothing,” he says. “No animals whatsoever. And apart from grass, no herbs or berries or mushrooms. Anything. It’s not normal.”  
  
“It is,” Álvaro says. “We’re getting to the end. They maybe want us to starve.”  
  
“Maybe they just want us to move,” Koke suggests. “To meet the others?”  
  
“We’d have to meet them sooner or later,” Álvaro nods. “So we can as well try. We could split and try to look each in one direction, then come back if we find something.”  
  
“Do I have to remind you what happened when we last split?” Koke asks. “You returned with a knife in your body.”  
  
Álvaro smiles sadly.  
  
“But we will have to split eventually,” he says. “Unless you want to kill me in my sleep.”  
  
Koke freezes, wondering whether it was just an expression or Álvaro knows about what he had wanted to do.  
  
“I don’t want to kill you,” he says then. “But we can still stay together for a bit longer. There’s still enough other tributes.”  
  
“Four,” Álvaro states.  
  
“Right,” Koke nods. “Do you think the Careers have already split?”  
  
“But we are not the Careers, Koke,” Álvaro says. “Maybe we have more chances alone.”  
  
“You, maybe,” Koke makes a face. “My chances equal zero without you. When I kill someone, it’s always an accident. You can hit anything without even looking at it.”  
  
“Don’t exaggerate,” Álvaro blushes. “Fine, we’re not breaking the alliance yet. But we do have to split for a while. Like that we can find water and food quicker.”  
  
“Good,” Koke sighs and picks up the spear and the net again, then checks he still has Pedro’s knife.  
  
Álvaro throws the bow over his shoulder.  
  
“I’ll go this way, alright? You go there towards the hill. We will meet here after noon.”  
  
Koke nods and bites his lip.  
  
“Álvaro?” he says then.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sorry? About what?” Álvaro frowns.  
  
“Sorry that we had to meet here,” Koke says. “I mean... I wish we met somewhere else.”  
  
“Yeah,” Álvaro nods. “Me too.”  
  
There’s again the awkward silence. Koke shuffles on his feet and Álvaro clears his throat.  
  
“See you later, then,” he says.  
  
“Yeah,” Koke nods and turns around. “See you.”  
  
*  
  
Diego Alves almost starts to think that the Careers changed their plans. That’s before Costa appears, running through the bushes like a bulldozer, and Iturraspe with Gurpegui follow, a lot less enthusiastically, but still looking determined enough to kill whatever appears in their way.  
  
At one point, Diego could hit Costa with a poisoned dart without a problem. But then of course he would have Gurpegui and Iturraspe after him immediately. He knows better than to go with a blowgun against three armed, trained tributes.  
  
“Where the hell did everything go?” Costa asks. “I mean food.”  
  
“In your stomach,” Gurpegui states.  
  
“No, I don’t mean  _my_  food, idiot!” Costa growls. “I mean the animals.”  
  
“They are scared of your yelling and stomping your feet!” Iturraspe snaps. “If you shut up for a while, we’d hear them and know where to go.”  
  
“But we’re looking for Morata, not animals!” Costa says.  
  
“But Morata is looking for animals!” Iturraspe rolls his eyes. “Really, it wouldn’t hurt if for once you thought with your brain and not with your axe!”  
  
Costa growls in annoyance but then tries his best to be as silent as possible. It still means that he’s loud enough for Diego to climb down the tree and follow them without being heard. Luckily Costa always acts the way he needs him to act.  
  
*  
  
Álvaro can hear the chirping of birds and feels the relief washing over him. It means that the arena still has some source of food, it’s basically just getting smaller. At least he supposes he is getting closer to the center of it and that the edges are getting deserted. As far as he remembers, in the previous years it always went this way, with the final duel taking place at the Cornucopia.  
  
Suddenly he can hear something rustle behind him. He turns around briskly and shoots. The only thing he sees are a few birds flying away. He lets out the breath he was holding and lowers the bow.  
  
In the next moment, a hand clamps over his mouth and he feels a cold blade on his throat. The gloves on the person’s hands make it easy to guess who it is. Gurpegui preys the bow from his hands while Iturraspe drops the rest of stones he used to make the birds stir and catch Álvaro’s attention. The oldest of all tricks, and he fell for it.  
  
“Shh, sweetheart!” Costa chuckles. “We just want to talk. For now.”  
  
“Yeah, if you’re asking, my leg is fine, thank you,” Gurpegui smirks.  
  
“Nobody’s interested in your leg here, Gurpegui,” Costa says nonchalantly, freeing Álvaro’s mouth. “Won’t you tell us where your friend is? I mean my beloved Koke. I haven’t seen him for so long, I’m missing him.”  
  
“Why should I? You’re going to kill me anyway,” Álvaro spits, trying to think about a way to get out of Costa’s hold without a slit throat.  
  
“Yes, that’s true,” Costa nods. “But if you’re a good boy I’ll tell Iturraspe to deal with you. He kills quickly and painlessly, I’m told. Otherwise, we’ll have some fun together.”  
  
He gives a pointed look to Iturraspe who is leaning over a tree, looking almost bored.  
  
“So, it‘s Iturraspe or me. I‘m counting to three.”  
  
*  
  
“I swear, if he tells them where Koke is, I will chop his body into pieces when it arrives here!” Sara growls.  
  
“You speak like Costa already,” Iker chuckles. “And isn’t Costa also your tribute?”  
  
“Yes, he is!” Sara snaps. “But I want them two to be the last remaining. Do you realize how much prestige it would bring me? Much more than if Costa kills Koke now just because he feels like it!”  
  
“Well, there’s still Alves around there,” Iker points out. “If he shoots a dart in Costa’s neck, then it can all change pretty quickly.”  
  
“Don’t even dare to say that!” Sara says. “Or I will shoot a dart in  _your_  neck!”  
  
“Would you stop arguing with Iker and help me get money?” Villa asks. “As it seems, we can write Morata off, so Koke will need some help from us.”  
  
Sara checks her appearance in a mirror and adjusts her cleavage.  
  
“I’m coming!” she nods.  
  
*  
  
“So?” Costa asks after he counts to three (and almost skips the  _two_ ).  
  
“Fuck you!” Álvaro says. “You want him, then find him yourself. I’m not going to help you with that. Because I want him to win now that I’m sure it won’t be me. He at least deserves it, unlike the three of you!”  
  
“Wow, he’s quite eloquent!” Gurpegui chuckles.  
  
“He won’t be in a minute,” Costa smirks. “Will you hold him for a while, Iturraspe? You can comfort him or wipe his tears, we know you like to do that.”  
  
“Go to hell, Costa!” Iturraspe mumbles, but takes hold of Álvaro instead of him.  
  
“Maybe you will change your mind,” Costa says while sharpening his knife pointedly.  
  
Álvaro just glares at him. Costa finishes and checks the knife for sharpness, though he most likely does it both to scare Álvaro further and to hide his disappointment caused by the fact that he will most probably not find Koke just yet. Then he grabs Álvaro’s hand and quickly cuts down his forearm, opening his vein. He does it on the other hand before anyone can blink.  
  
“I’m giving you a last chance,” he says contentedly. “You spill it out or I leave you here until you bleed to death.”  
  
There is a moment of silence. Everyone looks too shocked to move.  
  
“You’re fucking kidding me!” Iturraspe shouts then and launches himself at Costa.  
  
“Hey, hey,” Gurpegui says and tries to hold Iturraspe back, while trying to avoid also Costa who is by no means letting himself just be beat up.  
  
“Whose ally the hell you are?” Costa shouts.  
  
“Certainly not yours, you’re not even human, for fuck’s sake!” Iturraspe yells back while he is trying to break free from Gurpegui’s grip. “Let go of me!”  
  
Gurpegui releases him once he judges Costa to be in a reasonable distance.  
  
“Fuck you both!” Iturraspe spits and heads away from them.  
  
“Ander!” Gurpegui calls and runs after him.  
  
Costa looks offended for a while. He glances over to the place where Álvaro had crawled while they were momentarily not paying attention to him.  
  
“Got anything to tell me before I go?” he asks.  
  
“I hope you go to hell,” Álvaro breathes out.  
  
“I think you’ll go there first,” Costa smirks. “So long.”  
  
*  
  
Cristiano Ronaldo is having a mental breakdown. Dr. Carneiro has a syringe prepared but can’t administer the calming meds because Cristiano keeps running around the room, swearing, crying and threatening Villa and Sara.  
  
Llorente looks a bit unsettled, which means that he actually is watching the screen and isn’t even eating anything.  
  
Finally Iker manages to catch Cristiano and hold him so that Dr. Carneiro can do her work. They move him to the nearest couch because non of them wants to miss anything that’s happening on the screens.  
  
 _A few minutes after Costa leaves, Diego Alves emerges from the woods. He looks around to be sure everyone is gone, then kneels down next to Álvaro. Álvaro opens his eyes and looks at him.  
  
“Want me to make it faster?” Diego asks.  
  
“No,” Álvaro whispers. “Not now. Just... stay.”  
  
Diego nods, then helps Álvaro to half-lay over him and wraps his arms around him.  
  
“I‘m not even afraid,” Álvaro whispers. “Why am I not afraid?”  
  
“Because you’re brave. And a really good friend.”  
  
“He has to win,” Álvaro says weakly. “Koke. They need him at home. He has to go home.”  
  
“I’m sure he will,” Diego says comfortingly.  
  
He holds him until Álvaro’s breath becomes shallow and pulse almost impossible to feel. Then he pulls out a dart out of his pouch and pricks Álvaro’s finger with it.  
  
“I’m sorry, boy. Really sorry,” he whispers.  
  
He lays him in the grass and gets up. He picks up the bow and arrows still laying nearby just as the hovercraft appears. Then he disappears in the forests again._  
  
*  
  
The Careers are camping by the lake again. It seems like it’s the only remaining source of water in the arena as all the other streams have disappeared.  
  
Gurpegui managed to calm Iturraspe down after about two hours, but he is still sitting in a huge distance from Costa, not sparing him a glance even when it comes to dinner. While Costa tries to roast a fish he managed to catch in the lake, Iturraspe contents himself with more muesli bars. Gurpegui feels rather uneasy between them.  
  
“Who has the first watch?” he asks to break the awkward silence.  
  
“Me,” Iturraspe snaps. “As if it’s ever someone else.”  
  
After that, Gurpegui unfolds his sleeping bag without a single word and gets in. Costa finishes his fish, mumbles that it was too small, and goes to sleep as well, after checking carefully on the sky that his episode with Modrić wasn’t a dream.  
  
*  
  
Koke doesn’t have to look at the sky to know that Álvaro is dead. He knew it already when he came back to the place where they agreed to meet, and waited in vain. He knew Álvaro wouldn’t betray him or break the alliance. If he didn’t show up, it was because he couldn’t.  
  
What else than death could hold him back?  
  
Still, the image in the sky is a silent confirmation. The end of every hope. Suddenly Koke realizes that he didn’t even ask if Álvaro had anyone at home. Maybe they are people, family, friends, crying for him now. When he thinks of it, crying seems inappropriate. He was Álvaro’s ally, but still his opponent. He couldn’t win if Álvaro would win, and maybe he would have to kill him at one point.  
  
But they were friends. Or the closest to friends you can get in the arena.  
  
He hesitates for a moment. Then before Álvaro’s face disappears, he presses three fingers to his lips and holds them out to the sky.  
  
*  
  
The first sun rays are what wakes Carlos Gurpegui up. He immediately knows something is wrong. He shouldn’t have slept until the morning.  
  
He sits up abruptly and looks around.  
  
“Itu?” he calls.  
  
He’s nowhere to be seen. Nor is his backpack and his weapons. Now also Costa is looking around confusedly.  
  
“Fuck!” Gurpegui spits. “Fuck, I knew it. I knew he would do it.”  
  
“Do what?” Costa asks.  
  
“Break the alliance.”  
  
Costa just shrugs.  
  
“Well, after yesterday I wouldn’t be surprised if he became the new Pardo. He went completely mad.”  
  
“Where the hell could he go?” Gurpegui mumbles.  
  
“I don’t care,” Costa says. “At least I’ll have more food for myself.”  
  
*  
  
On the meadow in front of the Cornucopia, Diego Alves jumps to his feet when Ander Iturraspe comes out of the woods, and makes a few steps towards him.  
  
They both stop and look at each other for a long time, still standing in the safe distance.  
  
“So you’re here,” Diego says then.  
  
“You asked me to.”  
  
Diego makes a few careful steps. Iturraspe as well. Then, in the middle of the meadow, they shake hands.


	12. Twelve

“Are you trying to tell me that Iturraspe and Alves formed an alliance before the games?” Villa asks, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
“They did,” Llorente says calmly. “If it would come to the final five and they would be both still alive.”  
  
“And you of course knew about it all along.”  
  
“What does it matter?” Llorente shrugs. “There aren’t many things you can influence from here anyway.”  
  
“But you knew about it and Gurpegui didn’t?” Villa asks.  
  
Llorente shrugs again.  
  
“I don’t know how you look at it as a mentor, but for me, there is no team. Only one can win. Sooner or later you have to choose who will be the one you’ll stand behind.”  
  
Villa sighs deeply. He sort of always knew this, only every year before he would have to decide, his tributes made it easy for him. This year he has both tributes in the final stage of the Games and realizes that it’s actually harder this way. Because he hasn’t decided yet, and probably it’s high time to do so.  
  
*  
  
Diego Alves carefully lays Álvaro’s bow and arrows in the grass and Iturraspe follows his example with his sword. It doesn’t make that much difference because they probably still would be able to kill each other in different ways, but it’s a sign of truce. Temporary, as everything is in the arena.  
  
“Why did you want this?” Iturraspe asks.  
  
“I know I won’t win,” Diego shrugs. “I still care about who wins, though.”  
  
“And you don’t want it to be Costa?”  
  
“And I don’t want it to be Costa.”  
  
“So what is the plan?”  
  
“You’ll help me get Costa.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“Then you’ll send me home, preferably with dignity.”  
  
Iturraspe eyes him mistrustfully.  
  
“You could also win then.”  
  
Diego smiles condescendingly.  
  
“I think I’m not the Victor these Games should have. I shouldn’t have even been here. It was an impulse, now I’m just trying to make the best out of it.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“Besides that, after all I’ve already said about the Capitol, I think I wouldn’t make it one minute after I came back. I wouldn’t even come back, I think. They’d let the hovercraft accidentally explode or something.”  
  
Iturraspe chuckles.  
  
“Not sure I won’t have the same fate. Maybe I showed too much humanity lately.”  
  
“Yeah. That’s exactly why I chose you,” Diego nods.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because usually, people stop being human when they enter the arena. You’re quite the opposite. You needed to go to the arena to become more human.”  
  
“Is it going to kill me?” Iturraspe asks with a bitter smile.  
  
“It might. Or it could save you.”  
  
“Save me from the arena?”  
  
“Save you once you’re out of it.”  
  
“I’m not sure if you aren’t overrating me,” Iturraspe sighs. “There are still four people that would have to die for me to get out. Including you.”  
  
“Let’s not worry about me now,” Diego smiles. “Let’s worry about Costa first.”  
  
*  
  
“What the hell is this?” Florentino shrieks and points at the screen. “Aren’t they supposed to fight to death? I don’t even know if I’m watching the Games or a parliamentary session!”  
  
He looks around and finds Mourinho who is absent-mindedly playing with the water controls, so the lake surface in the arena now resembles a stormy sea.  
  
“Mourinho!” Florentino yells. “Will you finally do anything about these Games?”  
  
“I do have an idea,” Mourinho says thoughtfully and moves the controls so that the lake looks normal again. “But I will need your help.”  
  
*  
  
Sergio wakes up from a nightmare in the empty common room. Everyone is gone, either to one of the countless parties where they have a chance to get new sponsors for their tributes (it they are still alive) or to get wasted (if their tributes are dead), or to bed to get some sleep before the late evening when most of the action usually takes place. Sergio tries to remember what the nightmare was about, but the images are getting more and more blurry by every second he’s awake. He can still imagine it, though.  
  
The screens around him are still on, now showing reports and interviews from all the districts that still have their tributes in the Games. It means that nothing interesting is happening in the arena right now.  
  
Suddenly the door opens and David Villa walks in, smiling at Sergio when he sees that he’s awake.  
  
“Did I miss anything?” Sergio asks before Villa can ask him about how he’s feeling.  
  
“Not much. Just Iturraspe forming an alliance with Alves against Costa, and pretty much everyone else.”  
  
Sergio nods and looks at the screens.  _The reporter is now in Atlético Madrid and seems to have finally found Koke’s house._  
  
“Sensation hunting at it’s best,” Villa says. “It won’t help him with sponsors anyway. That you have to feed someone doesn’t interest them here in the Capitol. They have no idea what it is to starve.”  
  
Sergio nods thoughtfully.  _The cameras follow the reporter who gets the door shut in her face by Saúl and then the shaking picture shows her running away pursued by an angry Yorkshire terrier whom Óliver isn’t even pretending to be holding back. Javier obligingly holds the gate open for her so that she and the cameraman can leave their garden._  
  
“Those three would win the Games if they could go to the arena together,” Villa laughs.  
  
“But they couldn’t win all three,” Sergio says bluntly.  
  
“No,” Villa sighs. “Not even two. I should be happy to have to make this choice at this point of the Games, but I’m honestly not. Because how do you choose who you want to live?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sergio whispers. “I guess... with heart?”  
  
Villa looks him in the eyes for a while. Then he nods slowly.  
  
“Heart is probably the deadliest weapon in these Games,” he says. “I should try to use it.”  
  
*  
  
Costa is in a bad mood once again. His mood usually changes accordingly to the amount of food he has on hand, and the amount is considerably small now. The arena is apparently getting more and more deserted and nor him, nor Gurpegui possess the skills to lay the traps as well as Iturraspe could do it.  
  
“We need to get rid of them as soon as possible,” he growls when he finishes the last portion of a tiny bird they managed to catch in a net.  
  
“All at once?” Gurpegui asks sarcastically.  
  
“No, of course not. I’d love to get Alves first, just because he pisses me off already, but he’s probably hiding somewhere trembling with fear. Iturraspe I’ll leave for you. So it’s Koke who remains.”  
  
Gurpegui prefers not to comment on any of it. He can’t imagine Diego Alves trembling with fear, nor can he imagine himself killing his district partner while Costa watches it, and the complete indifference Costa shows while talking about his district partner actually disturbs him. But in one thing Costa is right. Koke seems like the easiest target.  
  
“Fine,” he says and puts on a merciless face. “So we should finally dig him out.”  
  
*  
  
“No, no, no!” Florentino yells, banging his fist in the table after each word. “Who do you think you are, Mourinho? You can’t just mess with the rules like this!”  
  
“But when it’s for the sake of the Games...” Mourinho objects.  
  
“I wonder what is good for the sake of the Games!” Florentino snaps. “Right now it feels like you are not in control of it anymore!”  
  
“This would certainly help.”  
  
“Help with what?”  
  
“Well, we need them to fight each other, don’t we?” Mourinho shrugs. “Unless you want to let me release the venomous snakes...”  
  
“No snakes!” Florentino snaps. “I still remember the squirrels, they ate not only Benzema, but also two cameras. Fine, so do what you want, but if it goes wrong, you’ll deal with the consequences.”  
  
“I can assure you that this will not go wrong,” Mourinho grins. “And it will improve your image in the districts as well.”  
  
“We’ll see,” Florentino mumbles. “I had to send a couple hundred of soldiers to Valencia this morning. I don’t want an uprising caused by something that should keep the districts obedient, just because you’re unable to end these Games already.”  
  
“This will end them quickly,” Mourinho says firmly. “And if not, I still have the volcano.”  
  
*  
  
Koke knows that falling asleep now means that he doesn’t have to wake up ever again, but in all honesty he is past the point of caring. Plus he is quite sure that Costa would wake him up before he would kill him, just because killing people mercifully in their sleep isn’t Costa’s style.  
  
He’s hungry and somehow sad and most of all disgusted by this all. He either wants to go home right now or he wants to die and let Costa win these Games because everyone has always known that he was going to win them anyway.  
  
Of course giving up is selfish. Mainly after all that Álvaro did to keep him alive. But it feels like this is as far as he could have gone in the Games, and he can’t imagine outlasting any of the remaining tributes.  
  
The sky confirms that the things haven’t gotten any easier because the badges disappear and there is no face following them. Nobody died today.  
  
“Attention, tributes!” Mourinho’s voice suddenly sounds from the sky. “The rules of the Games have just been altered.”  
  
Koke wishes he had someone to exchange worried looks with now.  _It can never mean anything good._  
  
“Because of our President’s indulgence, not one, but the two last remaining tributes will become Victors.”  
  
 _Or maybe it can._  
  
There is a strange sound that resembles a low chuckle. Then the voice speaks again.  
  
“On condition that they are not from the same district.”


	13. Thirteen

“My condolences,” Costa smirks.  
  
“What?” Gurpegui glares at him.  
  
“I saw the moment of hope on your face. Unfortunately killing me won’t bring your dear district partner home with you. On the contrary, if you want to win, you have to kill him.”  
  
“So do you,” Gurpegui snaps. “Koke is still here as well.”  
  
“You think that killing Koke will be a problem for me?” Costa laughs. “I had my mind set on that from the very beginning.”  
  
“And you think that we didn’t? Only one could win.”  
  
“But now two will win, but the other one will be someone else. I think that’s harder to digest,” Costa says and Gurpegui wishes he didn’t find the philosopher in him just now. “And actually, I think you two didn’t know what you signed up for before you stepped into the arena.”  
  
And it’s in that moment that Diego Costa is absolutely, painfully right.  
  
*  
  
“Seems like we can stick together for longer than we thought,” Iturraspe says gloomily.  
  
“Probably,” Diego nods.  
  
“Maybe you could rethink your original plan. I mean, not trying to win at all, for my sake.”  
  
Diego gives a small smile.  
  
“We’ll see. Now we’re not in the final yet.”  
  
“Right. We’re not.”  
  
“Do you think Costa and Gurpegui will go after us first, or they’ll go after Koke?” Diego asks and starts counting the remaining arrows in his quiver.  
  
“I don’t know. Costa will probably want to go after him first,” Iturraspe says. “Listen, I need you to promise me something.”  
  
“And that is?”  
  
“If me and Gurpe meet, you’ll leave us. I mean, you’ll let us fight. Just the two of us, however it should end.”  
  
“You mean that I shouldn’t help you even if you were losing, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Diego stops counting the arrows and looks at him. Then he shrugs.  
  
“It’s your choice.”  
  
“We wanted to have our own finale. Just the two of us, and the better one would go home. Like this, we could still do it that way. Sort of.”  
  
“Fine. Just don’t get yourself killed before we get Costa.”  
  
“I’ll try,” Iturraspe smiles. “Well, we should move. I don’t think that it will ever come to Costa’s mind to return to the Cornucopia.”  
  
“Unless Mourinho announces that they put a huge box of food and weapons there,” Diego nods.  
  
*  
  
David Villa wakes up when completely drunk Jonas trips over him. He started drinking when Diego Alves announced to the whole world that he was going to let himself be killed anyway, and when Mourinho announced the change of rules, he just continued with it.  
  
Villa reaches for his tablet, then drops it in his lap and rubs his eyes to be sure that he’s not dreaming.  
  
“Sara?” he yells then. “Sara Carbonero, I will strangle you in your sleep!”  
  
“What?” Sara asks and throws a lipstick back in her huge vanity bag.  
  
“When I said that I wanted to help Koke, I didn’t mean  _this_!”  
  
“You said that he couldn’t get Costa just with one spear,” Sara folds her arms. “So I don’t see what is the problem. The money was raised by me anyway, so I had all rights to make purchases when you were sleeping.”  
  
Villa is practically fuming. He takes a couple of deep breaths and looks at her.  
  
“And... what... exactly... made... you... think...” he says through gritted teeth while approaching her slowly. “That all Koke needed was  _a machete_?”  
  
*  
  
It’s more or less an accident that Sergio walks into one of the halls where the sponsors are having one of the countless banquets. As everywhere else there are big screens everywhere but due to the action in the arena being quite uninteresting, the interviewers are asking former winners about who they think will win. There are scenes of the Games they won as well. Sergio thinks that if they come to interview him, he will strangle them.  
  
He stares absent-mindedly at the screen. The arena looks like a labyrinth and he immediately knows that this is the 48th year, the year after he won, his first year as a mentor. His and Jonas’ tributes didn’t even make it through the first day. One of them died in the bloodbath, the other got lost in the labyrinth and practically ran into other tributes. The fact that Llorente and Iraola figured out the system of the labyrinth got them into the final. The interviewer is asking Llorente something now but Sergio doesn’t listen because Raúl González approaches him.  
  
“Sergio,” he smiles condescendingly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”  
  
At first Sergio wants to punch him in the face, next he thinks that he will puke all over Raúl’s shiny shoes. In the end he laughs.  
  
“You should be sorry,” he says. “But not for my loss. For yours. Because you lost.”  
  
“Did I?” Raúl frowns.  
  
“Yes. You lost. I won. Now you have no power over me, you, your friends, the whole Capitol.”  
  
He glances at the screens where an interviewer is talking to David Silva. The interview goes well until the interviewer accidentally uses the word “water”, which causes Silva a panic attack.  
  
“You have nothing to blackmail me with, nothing you could take from me because I don’t have anything anymore.”  
  
He walks out of the hall with Raúl just gaping at him.  
  
*  
  
When the parachute floats down from the sky in front of Koke, at first he doesn’t even move to claim it. Then the curiosity overcomes him and he shuffles closer to it.  
  
He keeps looking at the machete for good two minutes.  
  
“Are you on drugs, Villa?” he asks then.  
  
 _The mentors in the common room are rolling on the floor laughing while Villa is trying to kill Sara using nothing but his eyes.  
  
In Koke’s house, Saúl looks at Javier and raises his brows.  
  
“Do you think that he realizes what that thing can be used for?” he asks.  
  
“I think it’s quite obvious,” Javier says.  
  
“Then could he pick it up and make use of it?”  
  
“I hope he will do that soon,” Javier nods. “Because Costa surely knows what his axe can be used for.”_  
  
*  
  
“I think it’s no use to go to the lake,” Gurpegui says while Costa is making his way through the forest. “It’s too much in the open. Nobody will risk going there.”  
  
“Well, you have a better idea?” Costa snaps and chops off a branch that is in his way. “How do you want to find one Koke in the whole arena?”  
  
Gurpegui sighs. He’s quite sure that Iturraspe would know how, as his knowledge of the old Games tells him what will follow, but right now Costa is right. Koke can be anywhere.  
  
“If it takes too long, I suppose they will bring us together somehow,” he says then.  
  
“I have no time for that,” Costa growls. “I’m going to the lake. If you please, you can look in the forests around.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that we split?” Gurpegui frowns.  
  
“Well, each of us could manage Koke on his own, I’m sure of that. So if we don’t find him, we’ll meet by the lake and spend the night there.”  
  
“Fine,” Gurpegui nods. “So see you by the lake.”  
  
Getting away from Costa for some time will be probably refreshing.  
  
*  
  
Florentino frowns when Mourinho knocks on his door and walks in carefully, like he is afraid the President will throw something at him.  
  
“Well, Mourinho...” Florentino says in a dangerous voice. “What about them killing each other? The Games have been so boring now that the production doesn’t know what to show!”  
  
“Mr. President, I...”  
  
“Use the volcano you were talking about. Use it  _right now_!”  
  
“But sir,” Mourinho holds his hand up. “This would defeat the purpose of changing the rules. Give them a chance to fight. Just... just until the night. If there’s no death, I’ll use the volcano.”  
  
Florentino frowns and drinks a bit of his pink lemonade.  
  
“Alright,” he says. “But I want a good show. Otherwise the new element in the arena will be you.”  
  
*  
  
Diego Costa can’t believe his own eyes when he reaches the lake and sees Koke standing there casually, like Costa is a friend coming for a cup of coffee. It takes him a bit by surprise – after all this is the first time the other tribute isn’t trying to run away (except for Pardo, but Pardo was completely insane).  
  
“Oh, my district partner! I’ve been looking for you!” Costa says and grins. “I asked your little friend, but he refused to tell me where you were hiding. Kept his mouth shut even with cut veins. Impressive.”  
  
Koke grits his teeth and narrows his eyes.  
  
“You’re wrong, Costa,” he retorts. “I’ve been looking for  _you_. So that I could pay you back. For Álvaro.”  
  
He lifts the machete that seems to at least surprise Costa when it doesn’t intimidate him. Probably no weapon could intimidate him.  
  
“Oh, you mean business!” Costa chuckles.  
  
“Unlike you I have a good reason for wanting to win these Games,” Koke says.  
  
Costa raises his brows and then his face lights up when he realizes what Koke is talking about.  
  
“Oh, the three boys you feed,” he smirks. “Well, when I win, they can clean my house. Or do something else for me.”  
  
“You motherfucking bastard!” Koke roars and jumps on him. “Don’t you dare to speak of them like this! Don’t even dare to think about them!”  
  
For a moment only the sound of metal blade hitting another is heard while the cameras shuffle to the edge of the forest. At first it’s not clear what they are showing. Then they zoom in and reveal Carlos Gurpegui hiding among the trees. Apparently with no intention of joining the fight.  
  
*  
  
Javier climbs to the roof of their house and looks around. Óliver is sitting close to the edge of the roof, watching the sun setting above them. It’s not a place with a great view, because all that is around are the roofs of the neighborhood and the quarry behind them. However, it’s not the first time he preferred it to watching the screen of their TV.  
  
“You can come down now,” Javier says quietly.  
  
“It’s over?” Óliver asks quietly without stopping fixing whatever he is fixing with his eyes.  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
Óliver turns to him and then looks back at the horizon.  
  
“Leave me here.”  
  
Javier shuffles on his feet, then makes a few steps and lays a hand on Óliver’s shoulder..  
  
“You should really come down,” he says and then grins. “Because we’re still in the Games.”  
  
“You bastard, I’ll kill you!” Óliver yells and jumps up.  
  
Javier doesn’t stop laughing all the way downstairs.  
  
*  
  
The mood in the Capitol is ecstatic. Half of the citizens are crying because they’ve just lost a fortune on their bets. The other half is celebrating because their favorites have a much bigger chance to win now.  
  
Villa snatches the bottle of Capitol’s finest from Jonas and gulps down the bit that was left. Sara is alternating between crying and laughing.  
  
The only one of the mentors whose mood is miserable now is Fernando Llorente. Villa eyes him questioningly.  
  
“Well...” Llorente clears his throat. “My tributes are next, then.”  
  
*  
  
The sky in the arena goes dark and the anthem sounds. The badges appear in the sky.  
  
Koke is laying on his back, staring at the picture of Costa like he still can’t believe that it’s true, and more, that he is the cause of it. His whole body hurts, he’s pretty sure that his face looks terrible and the wound on his arm where Costa’s axe hit him is probably bleeding quite a lot but he couldn’t care less.  
  
The sky goes dark again.  
  
In another place in the arena, Diego Alves looks at Iturraspe and raises his brows.  
  
“Well,” he says. “That changes a lot of things.”  
  
Iturraspe just laughs bitterly.  
  
“Unfortunately not for me.”


	14. Fourteen

When the morning comes, Koke wonders if he’s still alive or if he’s turned into a piece of ice because the temperature that should rise with the sun on the contrary keeps dropping. It probably helps with the wound on his arm not becoming easily infected, but otherwise it more or less discards the plan he had before.

That was leaving the remaining three to sort things out between themselves. He figured that Iturraspe and Gurpegui would have to fight each other sooner or later, as not both of them could win. And if Alves was near, he would probably try to get the winner of that duel before he could get him.

Maybe it was bad logic, but the plan of staying the furthest away from the remaining contestants sounded good to him. Now he knows he has to change it because he could freeze to death before the others would get the opportunity to fight. The grass is slowly getting covered by white frost and the lake now looks like it’s covered in spiderwebs as the ice starts spreading over it.

With a sigh, Koke wraps his jacket closer around him, picks up the spear and machete, throwing Costa’s axe into the lake just to be sure nobody finds it and uses it against him. Then he heads where he believes the Cornucopia lies.

*

Diego Alves and Iturraspe returned to the Cornucopia after they found out Costa was dead. It was time for the finale, and everyone knew where they needed to go if they wanted to wrap things up. And even if someone wanted to stay away, the Gamemakers would make them go where they wanted them to be.

The Cornucopia offers at least some shelter from the cold and the one on the watch could always climb it and thus see the potential enemy before the enemy would get to him.

The enemy appears at dawn. Though Iturraspe refuses to call him  _enemy_. He has troubles even calling Carlos Gurpegui his  _opponent_  now. He’s known him practically since he could remember, and what he knows combat-wise, he learned from him. But they are no longer friends because they simply can’t be. Not at this stage of the Games.

He jumps down the Cornucopia loudly enough to let Diego Alves know that he should stay inside. Gurpegui stops a few steps from him.

“Hi, Itu.”

“Hi, Gurpe.”

Gurpegui looks around.

“Where is your new ally?” he asks. “Alves. Or am I wrong about that?”

“You’re right. But he’s not involved in this, and won’t be.”

“So that’s it? Just me and you?”

“Yes,” Iturraspe nods. “Just you and me. Like this was the final.”

“Good,” Gurpegui says.

He throws his backpack on the ground and raises his sword.

*

_In the Capitol, the mentors who still have some interest in the Games are gathered in front of the screens. Villa keeps pushing away Sara, who is constantly trying to grab his hand or hide her face in his shirt. Jonas is cradling his bottle and Fernando Llorente finally looks like he cares._

_Sergio shouldn’t care, but for some reason he can’t stop watching. More than any other time he can’t process how someone can enter the arena willingly. He remembers the dread of every Reaping Day, remembers how he prayed for someone else to be picked, remembers how his heart almost stopped when they called his name. He can’t imagine he would ever pronounce the words “I volunteer.” Even less can he imagine to go to the arena with his best friend, knowing only one can come out, in the best way._

_And yet in the deepest corner of his mind, he thinks that if he could, he would have volunteered for Bojan._

*

The blade skids over Iturraspe’s ribs and he jumps back, glancing quickly at the place where his jacket is slashed open and the fabric is slowly getting soaked in blood.

“Always the same mistake, my friend,” Gurpegui says, and it’s not mockery, it’s almost a reproach.

He swings the sword again, but Iturraspe ducks and gets behind him before he can turn around. Gurpegui blocks the blade in the last moment.

“Still slow the same,” Iturraspe pays him back with a sad smile.

It sums up the fight perfectly. Gurpegui is slower, but more accurate. Iturraspe is the one to take the initiative, but sometimes he forgets to parry the vulnerable parts of his body and Gurpegui takes the advantage. None of the wounds is fatal, but they do make him weaker. The next time he lifts the sword, he needs to use both hands.

Gurpegui puts all his remaining strength into the blow and when the blades meet, the impact is so strong that Iturraspe’s sword flies out of his hands.

Gurpegui kicks the sword away before he can change his mind and let Iturraspe pick it up again. He watches him sit on his heels and close his eyes, not squeeze them shut, just close them calmly.

“Do it,” Iturraspe whispers.

*

_“Are you trying to tell me that this is it?” Villa frowns. “Fair like that?”_

_Fernando Llorente grabs the bottle Jonas is holding and with some effort takes it from him, making the liquid go down noticeably._

_“For death, when it stands near us, gives even to inexperienced men the courage not to seek to avoid the inevitable,” he whispers. “So the gladiator, no matter how faint-hearted he has been throughout the fight, offers his throat to his opponent and directs the wavering blade to the vital spot.”_

_“What the hell is that?” Jonas asks, trying to get his bottle back._

_“Seneca. Epistles.”_

_“That’s basically compulsory reading in Bilbao,” Cristiano smirks. “Why do you think they have volunteers every year? They brainwash them since they can read... or even before.”_

_“Shut up,” Llorente breathes out and takes another mouthful of Capitol’s finest whiskey. “Shut up.”_

*

When nothing happens, Iturraspe opens his eyes and looks up. Gurpegui is looking at him, the sword just resting in his hand.

“What are we even doing?” he asks.

“Trying to go home,” Iturraspe says.

“We should have never left in the first place.”

“But we already have,” Iturraspe says and reaches for Gurpegui’s sword to guide it.

Gurpegui steps back, out of his reach.

“It’s bullshit,” he says and looks away. “I can’t do it. I won’t do it. They can’t make me.”

Iturraspe keeps watching him for a while, like he is waiting for him to change his mind. Then he shuffles forward.

“Gurpe?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

He preys the sword from his hand and turns it upwards.

*

_“Not so fair after all,” Villa nods._

_Jonas takes the bottle from the now barely conscious Llorente and takes a sip._

_In the control room, José Mourinho dispatches the hovercraft._

*

Diego Alves appears as soon as the hovercraft is gone.

“You’re bleeding,” he states.

“I don’t care,” Iturraspe mumbles.

“It’s something you should care about. Especially because we’re still not going home.”

Iturraspe looks at hime like the last word is the only one to register in his mind.

“It wasn’t fair! He should have gone home, he won!” he says.

“It  _was_  fair. You gave him the chance. He didn’t take it.”

Iturraspe just keeps staring at him. Diego sighs.

“Get up from that fucking ground,” he says then. “Mourinho probably thinks that frozen winners are more fun.”

*

_Florentino snorts and pours himself another cup of pink lemonade._

“Well, that’s still not what I call a finale.”

“What do you want?” Mourinho sighs. “Nothing will ever beat dying Torres. The Capitol ran out of paper tissues that day.”

“Sure, even your wife cried, and that’s quite something.”

Mourinho makes a face. He knows what he needs. Something nobody expected, something that will be the final loud BANG of the Games, the final surprise, the reason why everyone will remember these Games.

Unfortunately, he has nothing except one volcano.

*

When Koke reaches the Cornucopia, he immediately knows that he won’t have to wait for long until the end of the Games, whatever the end will be for him. Iturraspe and Diego Alves are already there. And there’s no one else standing between him and home.

The scene still feels surreal. Koke doesn’t look like he wants to be the first one to start the fight. Iturraspe is apparently trying hard to stay on his feet, more leaning over his sword than having it prepared to fight.

Then Diego Alves throws his weapons on the ground and spreads his arms.

“I don’t care which one of you does it, but do it quickly,” he says.  


 


	15. Fifteen

Florentino runs in the control room so quickly that some papers on the table next to the door fly in Mourinho's assistant’s face.  
  
“Mourinho, tell me that Alves is already dead!” Florentino growls.  
  
“Eh... no, Mr. President, he’s not... dead... yet...” Mourinho says, checking on the screens if his information is up to date.  
  
“Then make sure he is within the next five minutes! If he wins this, it will be a disaster!”  
  
“Why?” Mourinho frowns.  
  
“Because I’ve just spoken to our generals. There is an uprising in Valencia. And guess who is behind it? Alves. If he wins, how do you want me to present him as the winner and show Valencia to the whole La Liga?”  
  
Mourinho gulps.  
  
“Is it serious, sir?”  
  
“Nothing a few bombs and a couple hundred soldiers couldn’t sort out, but I need that man dead. And I need all possible footage from Valencia cut out. And I need the drunk mentor locked up until we know if he knew anything about Alves’ activities. For fuck’s sake, this is supposed to be  _my_ propaganda, not Alves’!”  
  
Mourinho nods and looks at the screens. He is giving the tributes four minutes of the five he was given by Florentino. Then he will activate the volcano, no matter if it kills all three at the same time.  
  
*  
  
“No,” Iturraspe says firmly and throws his sword to the ground.  
  
 _Oh damn, Mourinho thinks._  
  
Koke is literally white, shivering and close to crying.  
  
“I have to,” he says. “I have to go home.”  
  
He makes a step forward, then stops when Iturraspe steps in his way.  
  
“No,” he repeats. “This is just what they want.”  
  
“And just what they have to get,” Diego says calmly.  
  
“And what if we just stand here like this?” Iturraspe asks. “What if we just don’t want to kill anyone else?”  
  
“Then Florentino is going to be pissed and Mourinho will send wild animals on us, for example. I prefer this way. Let that boy go home, Ander.”  
  
 _Wild animals, why didn’t he think about that?_  
  
“I’m not going to let him kill you just like that!”  
  
Diego makes a step towards him, places his hands on his shoulders and then winks at Koke behind Iturraspe’s back.  
  
“Thank you,” he says. “But you have to.”  
  
He grips his shoulders and shoves him away right when Koke throws the spear.  
  
 _Thanks, boy, I‘ll put an extra gem in your crown._  
  
The trumpets sound from the sky, followed by Mourinho’s voice.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present the Victors of the 50th La Liga Games, Jorge Resurección Merodio and Ander Iturraspe Derteano.”  
  
Koke leans over the Cornucopia, still not quite believing it’s over. Iturraspe is kneeling in the frozen grass, already past the point of caring.  
  
And then the silence is broken by the humming of the hovercraft approaching to take them home.  
  
*  
  
Sara Carbonero falls in Villa‘s arms, sobbing a bit too theatrally, but Villa‘s mood is too good for him to mind. He high-fives Llorente over Sara‘s head and grins.  
  
“Is my mascara alright?” Sara asks then, back in her business mode.  
  
“Yes, it is,” Villa says. “But you have a pimple on your face.”  
  
“What?” Sara yells.  
  
“No, that was a joke, you don’t.”  
  
“Bastard, you scared me to death!” she growls and taps on her pad to contact the reporter who is in Madrid. “Alright, we’ll need some reactions from Madrid.”  
  
“I’m not going to that house again!” the reporter protests. “They’ll send the dog after me again!”  
  
“Shut up and go there!” Sara snaps. “Florentino wants sentimental stuff, I have no idea why. He’s probably gone old and sappy.”  
  
 _The reporter sighs deeply, then puts on a professional smile and tells the cameraman to start turning. The moment she walks in the house, Saúl, Óliver and Javier jump on her, making her a part of their celebratory dance, while the dog keeps running around them.  
  
“And that’s all from Madrid,” she squeaks._  
  
*  
  
Koke is still convinced that he must be dreaming. There are about five people on board of the hovercraft fretting over him. They remove the tracking device from his arm, clean the wound left by Costa‘s axe and stitch it, wrap him up in a warm blanket, give him some hot drink.  
  
The realization starts creeping in.  _It‘s over. This is the end. He‘s safe. It‘s over. There‘s no arena anymore. No one trying to kill him. No one he has to kill. Over._  
  
The relief is so big that he can‘t even contain it, he can‘t even feel happy or sad, he wants to cry in one moment and laugh in the next. There are only the final ceremonies left and then he can go home.  
  
He glances to the other side of the hovercraft. There is nothing ecstatic about Iturraspe. Unlike Koke who cursed off even his grandmother, he stayed completely quiet while they were removing the tracking device and taking care of his wounds. Now he‘s sipping on his tea and looking so miserable that Koke would hug him, weren‘t it utterly awkward.  
  
He prefers to look out of the window where the roofs of the Capitol are approaching. He never imagined he would ever see them again. Suddenly he wonders if when they were leaving the Capitol, Álvaro believed he would come back.  
  
And in that moment he understands why Iturraspe feels miserable despite winning the Games.  
  
*  
  
Sara Carbonero is the first person he sees. Not that he took to her in the first stage of the Games, but he figured in the arena that she was behind many things and he sort of missed her “nothing is a problem for Sara Carbonero” attitude. And he’s so happy to see a friendly face right now that he wouldn’t mind if it was a dog greeting him. He hugs Sara and squeezes her in his arms so tight that she squeaks a bit. Koke finally lets go of her and Sara straightens her clothes (she thanks the stylists for choosing a fabric that wouldn’t crumple), checks her hair and wipes away a stray tear.  
  
Villa is the next one to appear, with a smug smile on his lips.  
  
“I missed your soul patch,” Koke breathes out.  
  
“Now, don’t get too sentimental,” Villa chuckles.  
  
They are not even playing for the cameras, but from Sara’s smile they read that they are doing it right. Some assistant approaches them with a tray with glasses of champagne.  
  
“Tell me, which of you sent me that machete?” Koke asks.  
  
“She did!” Villa frowns. “Did it when I was sleeping.”  
  
“Okay, so I don’t know much about weapons,” Sara shrugs. “I’d have sent you a gun, but they are not allowed.”  
  
The escort for Bilbao appears then, dressed in an exquisite dress in the colors of the Basque flag, a crown of red and white roses in her hair. She is smiling proudly. It‘s her second winner in three years.  
  
“Welcome back,” she says.  
  
She kisses Iturraspe on both cheeks and uses the opportunity to whisper to him to show a bit more enthusiasm about winning. Iturraspe smiles and nods.  
  
“Thanks, Ingrid.”  
  
Fernando Llorente walks out of the building and for the first time Iturraspe‘s smile looks genuine. Leaving the escort behind, he runs to the mentor and hugs him. Llorente then pulls away and looks him in the eyes.  
  
“You scared me to death,” he whispers.  
  
“I was scared to death.”  
  
Llorente cracks a smile, then pulls him into a kiss that makes Sara Carbonero drop her microphone and David Villa choke on the champagne he‘s drinking.  
  
 _In the control room, José Mourinho’s face is sporting a huge grin. This is his final BANG. And for once even he didn‘t expect it._  
  
*  
  
The crowning ceremony takes place a few days after the arrival of the Victors. Capitol doesn’t want to see them half-dead, tired, bruised and still in shock. Some recovery time is needed, even though it’s considerably shorter than when Villa won and they had to practically sew him together, or when Silva returned half mad and it took a week for them to get him to say a word.  
  
Sergio turns up last in the backstage, having decided in the last moment that he would after all attend the ceremony. The stylists are almost ready to leave when he arrives. One of the girls quickly finds at least a better jacket for him, ruffles his hair and powders his face. She ushers him out of the room as she runs to be there for the ceremony in time. Sergio takes his time passing through the backstage. Then, right before taking the turn that will lead him to the box where the mentors had their places, he stops.  
  
Iturraspe is sitting on the stairs leading to the stage, hands pressed to his temples and eyes closed, like the cheering of the crowd and the voice of the host are giving him the worst headache possible. Then he gets up, shakes his head wildly and puts on a smile so bright that hadn’t he just seen the whole scene, Sergio would believe it was genuine. The Games have rules that aren’t written anywhere, and Iturraspe obviously understands that this smile can be the weapon that will save his life.  
  
When the host announces the President, Sergio looks up. Florentino appears on the stage, talks about the courage the two winners showed, about the honor and how proud the Capitol is of them. Then two pretty girls in the jerseys of Atlético Madrid and Athletic Bilbao appear, carrying two golden crowns on velvet pillows. Florentino almost mixes them up and the host jokes about how similar the jerseys are. Sergio is sure the microphones have to catch the sound Iturraspe makes as he screeches his teeth.  
  
Florentino places one crown on Koke’s head, then takes the other one and frowns threateningly at Iturraspe who bends down to accept it. The host takes Koke’s and Iturraspe’s hands and raises them in the air. Sergio remembers the day he was standing there, with the crowd cheering and Jonas swaying on his feet, still drunk. How in that moment, he actually felt happy. The nightmares only came later.  
  
*  
  
Everyone stands up for the anthem. Koke is still smiling brightly, Iturraspe opts for the solemn expression as it’s easier to fake. The host then shows them to two armchairs on the stage and takes the other. The emblem of La Liga appears on the huge screen and then the recapitulation of the Games begins, starting with the reaping and scenes from the parade and interviews, and then with the recapitulations of all the deaths.  
  
It seems like the crowd has their favorite deaths. They sigh appreciatively when Diego Alves tricks Rakitić and poisons him, wipe away stray tears when Iturraspe gives Sergi Roberto the  _coup de grace_  (Koke feels a pang of guilt during that one), press their palms to their lips when Iturraspe kills Tomás Pina with nothing but his hands (Koke gives him an unsettled glance as if only now he is realizing who he is sitting next to), they laugh when Luka trips over sleeping Costa. Koke knows what will come next.  _Álvaro._  
  
It is the first time he sees what really happened to Álvaro. He wants to go back in time, he wants them to never split on that day, wants to kill Costa again and more painfully, wants to be at least the one to hold him instead of Diego Alves. The host clears his throat quietly and discreetly hands him a tissue. Only in that moment Koke realizes that tears are falling from his eyes on the expensive tissue of his pants.  
  
The rest is a blur, watching his fight with Costa seems unreal. It’s like they are not even human, just two wild animals punching, scratching and kicking. What a contrast it makes with Iturraspe’s and Gurpegui’s fight, clean and fair.  
  
The final confrontation at the Cornucopia is shortened a lot, most likely Florentino ordered them to cut out some parts. Koke hangs his head in something close to shame. He felt bad about it before, and in the shortened version he looks even more like a careless, selfish bastard who wants to win, nothing else.  _Though what else did he actually want?_  
  
When it’s all over and he’s back in his room, he curls up under the blanket and just wishes he was already home, wishes it was months from the Games and nobody cared about him anymore, even though it’s unlikely to happen in the next few years at least.  
  
He had definitely thought that being the Victor felt different.  
  
*  
  
Two trains are ready at the Capitol station. One is going to take Koke back to Madrid, the other is heading to Bilbao. The producers are having twice as much work as they have to do everything twice and combine the footage. Sara is accompanying them to Madrid as well as the other escort is going to Bilbao.  
  
“See you on the Victors’ tour,” Iturraspe says.  
  
Koke looks at him, tries to determine whether it was a friendly farewell, a polite way to wrap things up or a reminder that in half a year, he’ll have to look in the other tributes’ friends and families faces. Especially in those of Diego Alves.  
  
“See you.”  
  
Iturraspe nods and gets on the train. Koke turns around to see Sara commanding some employees to take in her two heavy baggages with clothes and counting the boxes with her hats.  
  
“Ready? Are we ready? Let’s go!” she yells.  
  
Koke doesn’t think that he’s ready for anything, but suddenly there’s nobody he could tell.  
  
*  
  
As soon as the train stops and he steps out, three boys run out of the crowd and jump on him.  
  
“You were so shit, oh my God!” Saúl growls in his ear. “I thought you didn’t even want to win!”  
  
“Thank you, Saúl,” Koke grins.  
  
“Man, how could you even think we’d ever clean Costa’s house?” Javier asks. “I would personally put poison in our dinner!”  
  
“Don’t remind me of Costa ever again,” Koke says. “I think I won’t take you two with me to the new house. Just Óliver, because he doesn’t say anything.”  
  
“Yeah, because Óliver didn’t  _see_  anything. He was hiding on the roof all the time,” Javier makes a face.  
  
“No, wait, he did watch your non-existent medical skills,” Saúl corrects him.  
  
“Shut up!” Óliver mumbles and he speaks Koke’s mind.  
  
*  
  
In Bilbao, the welcoming is a lot less spontaneous. It’s almost a solemn act. Iturraspe shakes hands with whoever wants to shake hands with him, listens to the major’s speech, accepts some medal they give him. It’s all he ever wanted but suddenly it’s not enough, there’s something missing and he knows it stayed in the arena and will stay there forever because he will never be able to retrieve it.  
  
“Cheer up!” Llorente says as they head to the reception at the major’s house.  
  
“Tell me something to cheer me up,” Iturraspe sighs.  
  
“We’re going to be neighbors now.”  
  
It finally draws a smile from him.  
  
“This was a promise or a threat?”  
  
“No waking up for work at 6 am, no queuing at the bakery, no electricity shortages and hot bath whenever you feel like it, that sounds like a threat to you?”  
  
“No electricity shortages with your terrible music taste, that sounds like a threat.”  
  
Llorente gives him a murderous glare.  
  
“You can choose if I drown you in a hot or a cold bath,” he growls.  
  
*  
  
Sergio closes the door of his house and looks around. It’s the same he left it before the Games, there’s just the scent of some detergent in the air because the woman hired by the Capitol to do the cleaning for him was here before his arrival.  
  
It’s actually better like this. There’s no chance of him to smell any rests of Bojan’s scent that could be left here.  
  
He sits on the sofa and switches on the TV automatically. Sara Carbonero is interviewing Koke while trying to ignore Óliver’s dog that is chewing on the microphone.  
  
Sergio switches the TV off again. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his time, what to do with his life. He doesn’t know what he was doing before. But before, there was something he could hold onto, some hope on the horizon, however distant it was, now it is gone and all he can see is darkness.  
  
Walking over to the window he looks towards Jonas’ house. The lights are out and the house looks empty. Sergio frowns but that is all he can do. When people disappear, it is better not to ask about them.  
  
It’s getting dark but he doesn’t switch on the lights. Where he used to live before the Games, they didn’t have electricity and he got used to spending the evenings in the dark. He sits back on the sofa and decides to do just that. Sit there in the dark and wait for something that will never come back.  
  
 **Epilogue**  
  
The Reaping Day comes too soon. It always seems to be so distant and then it’s suddenly just around the corner. Sergio used to fear that day. He doesn’t fear it anymore. He fears nothing anymore.  
  
He stands with the others on Valencia’s main square. When he came back from the last Games, Valencia looked different. They escorted him to the Victors’ Village right away but he did catch glimpses of the streets, of the half-washed graffiti on the walls, holes left after bullets, broken windows and armed Capitol soldiers guarding the streets.  
  
Now everything looks almost normal again. The square has to look normal for the Capitol, at least.  
  
It’s the 51st year. No surprises, no extra participants, nothing unusual. For the next twenty-five years the Games will be the same. If last year Bojan wasn’t picked, he would never be.  
  
Florentino has his usual speech and Sergio can feel the hatred burning inside of him. Florentino always gets what he wants, now he knows it. Last year he was the closest to defeat, when the Games almost didn’t go his way. Almost. But he didn’t really need to worry. He could have been almost sure one of the three remaining tributes would snap finally. The prospect of being one step away from going back home was more than any rebellious thoughts. Not that Sergio doesn’t understand it. He almost doesn’t feel like he belongs here anymore, because Valencia at least tried to fight.  
  
But then, it’s just Valencia. They are the only ones of this spirit. Florentino doesn’t really have to worry.  
  
“After the events of last year’s Games, the rules have been slightly altered,” Florentino says and sips on his pinkish lemonade. “There will be no reaping and no volunteers anymore.”  
  
Sergio knows his heart should start beating faster now. Whatever it means, it’s nothing good. It can mean anything, it can mean even that he could be going back to the arena because if Florentino changed the rules, then the one about the former Victors not being eligible could be simply declared void. Only that his heart beats normally. He simply doesn’t care anymore.  
  
“Instead of the tributes being reaped...” Florentino makes a dramatic pause.  
  
There is a cut and the cameras show the crowds in various districts waiting for the new rules to be announced. Sergio can see the Real Madrid crowd with mostly determined faces, the Barcelona one, looking mostly indifferent. Then the Atlético Madrid appears and Sergio can see the three boys that ran to hug Koke after his victory, now huddled together in the crowd, holding hands tightly like in a silent prayer. Athletic Bilbao look mightily upset about the no-volunteers rule, and slightly curious as well. Then it’s Valencia’s turn. Sergio notices that the crowd looks different this year. Mostly people are plain worried about being picked, or the people they love being picked. This year they look... angry.  
  
Florentino is back in the picture, calming the excited Capitol crowd with gestures that somehow remind Sergio of Cristiano Ronaldo’s signature gesture.  
  
“Instead of the tributes being reaped...” Florentino repeats.  
  
The crowd in the Capitol goes silent.  
  
“The last Victor from the district will choose the two tributes.”  
  
Sergio can feel the hundreds of scared eyes on him, and he wants to throw up.  
  
THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> For people who didn't read the books or see the movie:
> 
> \- People can have their names enter multiple times in exchange for food and other supplies for their families. Especially the poor do it. That's the reason why Sergi's name was in the ball so many times.  
> \- People can volunteer in place of someone whose name was drawn (as Diego Alves did). In some districts, some people see the Games as a chance for fame, glory and comfortable life, and they volunteer after preparing for the Games beforehand (as Gurpegui and Iturraspe did). Those are called Careers.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Love is not an equation, it is not a contract, and it is not a happy ending](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973607) by [Candace_X_Chambers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candace_X_Chambers/pseuds/Candace_X_Chambers)




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